NATURAL BOURNE KILLER
by Art Anthony
Summary: Some people are defined by their role in life, this girl is defined by her role in peoples death! But is anything what it seems? And will time permit the real truth to be brought to light? A/N: This story acts as a prequel to The Bond Identity, eventually running alongside it to offer an additional perspective to that world of espionage.
1. StillBOURNE

**STILLBOURNE**

There was once this amnesiac assassin... stop me if you've heard this one before. Oh, you have? Well, as cliche as it may sound, it's what I think I just might be.

Why? Because as I'm sitting here alone in this diner, my mind is continuously coming up with combat scenarios, exit strategies, I'm mentally taking note of where each surveillance camera is positioned, their lines of sight, it's like my mind won't switch off.

Case in point, I'm looking at what I think is a pretty hot guy making eyes at me from the other side of the room, and all I'm thinking is, he's caucasian, weighs about 12st, 75kg, 5ft 8in in height, left handed and married, probably unhappily, with at least one child.

Ok, so the tiny milk stain on the shoulder of his suit jacket tells me as much and the ring on his wedding finger is a dead giveaway, but the point is, this is the only reason I can come up with that actual makes sense.

As for the 'amnesiac' bit, my mind pretty much draws up a blank when I try to remember anything beyond six weeks ago. That's when they found me, unconscious, lying in the middle of Westfield Park.

No idea what I was doing there, maybe out for a late night jog? Whatever it was, it seems I was the victim of an attack, as I'd reportedly suffered a mild head wound. But bizarrely no money was taken. And thankfully no trace of... well... anything **else** being done to me, either.

Couldn't track down any friends or family members though. Said they'd pick up on it once they have a moment or two. Guess they're still busy.

Just wish I could remember something. Anything. I don't even remember what I'm doing sitting in this diner.

"Yo, Alexia! You wanna get your pretty little ass off that chair? Customers aren't gonna serve **themselves**, you know?"

Oh yea, now I remember. I work here. I'm not an assassin after all. Just a waitress.

"Sorry Mr Redmond," I apologise. "I must have dozed off. Won't happen again!"

"Bet yo ass it won't happen again! You know, this ain't baseball. Here, you only get **two** **strikes!**"

That's Reggie Redmond, the owner of the diner. He was kind enough to give me a job, even without a reference. Thanks to him being the brother-in law of one of the cops who found me.

"Sorry, Mr Redmond, sir."

"Good thing the good Lord gave you beauty. Cause 'seems the best part a your brain got left back in your mama's womb! Now go serve that kind gentleman, waiting patiently for the bill!"

Ah. Yes. The hot guy. So **that's** why he was looking my way.

I make my way sheepishly over to him, he's even better looking up close, all the while hoping I don't make an ass of myself. Again.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir." I apologise, "I hope the breakfast was satisfactory?"

"The eggs were ok and the toast a little on the burnt side, but the service more than made up for it." he smiles. I blush in response.

"Would you like anything else?" I gush.

"Nothing on the menu." he smiles again.

Damn it, with a smile like that, I'm almost tempted to pay the damn bill **for** him. I don't, of course. I simply place the bill gently on the table before him, face down, gather his knife, fork and plate, then turn to leave.

"Actually Isabella, there is one thing you can do for me..." he asks.

I turn back to him and smile politely, "Sorry sir, my name is Alexia?"

When they found me in the park that night, it was the name written on my identification papers; passport, driving license, etc. Pretty much the only thing I **am** sure of.

"Hey, no need to apologise, miss. It was my mistake." he replies. "It's just... you look a **lot** more like an 'Isabella' than you do an 'Alexia'. Anyone ever told you that?"

Ok, this is awkward. He's trying to make light conversation with me. Probably doesn't know Ive seen the ring. Need to play dumb. Don't want to offend the guy for trying to flatter me.

"No sir, no-one has told me that. At least not in the last six weeks, anyway." I laugh, innocently. Which ends up sounding dorky.

"Strange though," he continues. "Cause you definitely remind me of an Isabella I knew; Isabella Garcia. Actually looked a lot like you, too."

"Well I... hope she was a nice lady, at the very least, Sir." I say, feeling more awkward by the minute.

He pauses for a moment, then shrugs. "Like I said, my mistake." he smiles, again.

"Not a problem sir." I tell him. "Now, there was something I could do for you?"

"Yes, there was..." he replies, "YOU COULD **DIE!**"

He pulls out a Beretta M9 from nowhere and aims it at me, and time freezes. It's almost as if I've stepped out of my own body, becoming my own spectator to what unfolds.

I hurl the plate at him with everything I've got - He flinches, ducking underneath it, firing shots at me blindly as the plate shatters against the wall behind him - but I've already rolled towards him, safely under the trajectory of the bullets - three of them whistle over my head by the time I've reached his table - I jab the fork in my hand deep into his lower leg and he screams - I rise, kicking the gun from his hand as it spins across the room, cracking the front window on impact - he pulls out a combat knife and lunges towards me - I side-step it, driving the bread knife in my other hand deep into his wrist with such force, it goes right through - he screams, dropping the combat knife - I catch it and drive it into his chest.

As he slowly sinks into his chair, I just stand there, indifferent, watching the light in his eyes slowly go out.

A scream from behind me snaps me out of my trance-like state. It's one of the other girls, a colleague.

"Reggie's been shot!" she cries. "Call 911!"

A stray bullet must have found him. Sooner or later, they find everyone. No, thats not me thinking. That's not how I talk. Who am I? What's just happened?

The other customers come up from underneath their tables and run out into the streets in a mass panic, screaming. Everyone is screaming.

I've never felt so scared in all my life. All six weeks of it. I'm hyperventilating. My hearts beating so rapidly it feels like its in my throat. My head feels cloudy, too many questions. I need air. I need to get out.

I run outside and throw up everything I ate that morning till theres nothing left but air.

Thats when I hear the screeching of a car pulling up in front of me. The passenger door flies open and a man leans over and screams at me;

"Get in! Quick! We don't have a lot of time. Get in and live or stay there and die, its your choice!"

I don't know why, but I get in. I trust this man for some reason. Even though I've never met him before. I don't know why. I need to find out why. So I get in and we speed off in his car, as the sound of approaching sirens echo in the distance.


	2. Wasn't BOURNE yesterday

**Wasn't BOURNE yesterday.**

My world is upside down.

I don't mean that metaphorically, I'm talking _literally_.

The people all around, staring at me, pointing, they're standing upside down. One of them's trying desperately to tell me something. But I can't hear him. In fact I cant hear anything for all the ringing in my ears.

Ah, yes... the ringing in my head! The very same head that feels like it was hit by a bus.

No, not a bus. A car.

Right, I remember now. I remember it all. It's not the world that is upside down... it's **me. **

The incident back at the diner, the man who conveniently appeared from nowhere to help me escape. The very same man hanging next to me from the drivers seat, semi-conscious, blood gushing from an open wound on his forehead. He's murmuring something... a name... 'Pamela... Landy'. Is she in _danger_? Or is **she** the danger herself?

Regardless, I need to get him-_us_ free. Focus. Calm. Panicking creates errors, errors create mistakes, mistakes'll get us both killed. If the leaking fuel from the petrol tank doesn't first. So that's what the people outside were trying to tell me. Our time is limited.

I calmly unclip my seatbelt and gravity does the rest. Now my head's **_really_** hurting.

I look all about me, assessing the situation, playing out the various options. None are coming up favourable. I can see in the side mirror a small fire growing steadily from the back. Once it hits the leaking fuel you'll be able to serve up whats left of me on a slice of toast back at the diner.

The diner. Sure hope Mr Hammond is alright. Feel so guilty.

Heads really pounding, now. Heart rate's increasing. Hard to focus. Trying to unclip the driver but its no use, the seatbelt's jammed. I look around for something to prise it open, cut the straps or... wait... a briefcase... back of the car... shiny... silver. Never noticed it before... how strange...

Now the fires spread all the way to where we are. We're out of time.

I try to pull him free. He screams in agony. Somethings broken. Or dislocated. His shoulder perhaps? I wonder what's in the briefcase?

One last look around I see a shard of broken glass from the windscreen. Perfect for cutting him free. Now, if I could just... grab... the briefcase.

Damn it, whats with me and this **_damn briefcase?_**

I need it! Probably holds information. Probably about 'her'. This 'Pamela Landy' lady. The one who's responsible for all this. She killed Mr Hammond and near enough killed me. But Im too smart. I survived. I'm a _**survivor**_. And I'll survive now, I just need to-_damn it, listen to me!_ A mans life quite literally '_hangs in balance_', and all i can think of is...!

I reach over for the briefcase, stretching until it's in my grasp, then use it to clear a sizeable hole in the windscreen before crawling my way out of it and scrambling to safety. The sheer force emanating from the explosion of the car, carries me the majority of the way.

I land in a nearby patch of grass and just lie there, as pieces of debris rain down all around me, the briefcase serving as a handy umbrella of sorts, as I wait patiently for the passing of the storm.

The briefcase. I have it. **WHY?**

Dear God, no! I let that man die to rescue it! But why? It doesn't make sense. I had a plan to rescue **_him_**. I'd already decided I that I would... _open the briefcase._ Yes, that was it... I need to open the briefcase. Could be something important inside. I NEED TO GET IT OPEN!

I take up a piece of scrap remains from the car and begin hammering away at the latches in an almost animalistic fashion until eventually one latch gives way. Followed by the other.

Taking a deep breath I open it slowly and peer inside, giddy with anticipation of my prize.

It's revealed to be... a red digital clock face surrounded by an assortment of wires... strange. Who carries around a digital clock in a silver shiny briefcase?

I glance again at it and notice... the numbers... they're counting down... to something...

'00.0**4**, 00.0**3**, 00.0**2**, 00.0**1**.'

'OH SH-!'

Darkness.

Silence.

Voices?

Two men talking. Having a heated debate about... _me?_

I pry my eye lids open, Its difficult, they're so heavy. Still darkness, something must be covering my eyes. I'm in some sort of chair with both my hands and feet restrained. Where am

I? What the hell is going on?

"Make a note; subject 437T has responded favourably to scenarios _one, two _and _four_. _Three_ and _five_, less... predictable. Her reaction time in _four_ and _one_ however... impressive. Best I've seen since subject: Webb back in the initial programme."

"How far we have come since then."

"Indeed. Prep the 'whitewash' software. Time for a live run. We're moving ahead with the-."

"Too soon! Synaptic readings are erratic at best. We'll need more time to ensure a stable-"

"Dr Ludlum, you are not paid to second guess my requests, merely to record my findings and carry out my instructions to the letter."

"Payment? I'm not _doing_ this for '_payment_' you... I'll remind you of your promise to-"

"Yes. Of course Dr, calm yourself. You still have my word she'll be safely released upon completion of 'Zero Hour'. But till then, doctor... I would strongly recommend you-"

"I... know. Look, when... this is over. I'm out. Completely. No more."

"But of course Dr. They're will be no further need for you. Or her. I always keep my word."

"You know, if 'he' found out we were using 'her' as a test subject... conducting these experiments...?"

"If **he** is still alive, as rumours persist... he doesn't even know **she** exists... and she doesn't even know who he _is!_ So do us both a favour and wipe her memory like I have asked you. And doctor... thats the last verbal warning you will get. Next time you'll eat a bullet."

I then hear one set of footsteps leave the room, whilst the other draws slowly closer to my location. My heart races as a single beed of sweat begins its journey down the side of my face.

I remain catatonically still.

"I _know_ you are awake." he whispers to me. "We don't have much time. 'Nicky Parsons'. Remember that name when you awake. Seek her out when you are able. Tell her; 'Project Whitewash' is a Go! She will know how to st-"

I black out.

Darkness.

Silence.

To be continued...


	3. One BOURNE Every Minute

More darkness.

Getting to be an annoying habit, that. Only this time it's being caused by a hood thats been placed over my head. The musky odour from the material, it's almost seeping into my skin, causing it to itch. But I can't scratch it, as my hands seem to be... restrained... with chains... interesting.

From what I can tell, I'm in a vehicle of some sort. Journey's smooth, so we ain't off-road, and steadily paced too, so Im guessing... a freeway maybe? And I can smell... gun oil? It's from a weapon somewhere nearby... and movement. There's movement all around me. I'm not alone.

My head. It feels funny. Not in a _headache_ kind of way, either. Back of my skull... its... itchy.

What's happened to me? Where am I? Who's taken me hostage? _A-am I going to... die? I-I need to..._

No.

The fear... it's creeping back... hungry... wants to feed. Trying to fight it but its growing stronger by the second. Need to compress it... somehow. Heart rate's building... sounding more like a galloping wild horse... need to slow it down... tame it... must... slow-

Bright lights! The hood's bern lifted off. Taking a while for my eyes to adjust. It's daytime. I glance around trying to gather my bearings. Trying to connect the dots.

Six of us in the back of what appears to be a van, military grade. We're chained to each other like prisoners. No, only **_five_** of us are chained, and they all look as disoriented as I am. The 6th... something tells me he's the guy in charge. Maybe its the semi automatic weapon he's waving in our direction? Remington 1100, 12 gauge tactical shotgun.

Not sure why I know that or how it helps, but I do. Which leads me to only one burning question in the back of my, still considerably itchy, head;

"Is this all real?"

The question, asked by guy beside me wearing spectacles and crazy-curly blonde hair, beats me to the punch. Am I _really_ awake this time or is this just another simulation? And does that mean he was put through a similar circumstance too? And who the heck is he anyway?

"Buddy, you really wanna take these chains off of me!" barks the big bald brute in the corner at the dude holding the gun. But he's unresponsive and simply stares back at him blankly. "Take these chains off of me, dammit! Before I snap them off and use em to strangle your scrawny ass!"

"Who are you?" tries the spectacled guy. "What is this about?"

But he too gets zero response.

**["Why dont you get it over with and put a bullet in my bloody skull!"] **screams the fiery redhead opposite with a thick accent.

**["Try to keep calm."] **I tell her. **["Panicking will only make it worse and re-enforce their belief that ****_they_**** are in control!]**

**["You... speak ****_Russian_****?"]** she asks, a look of surprise on her face.

**["No, sorry I don't. I'm an american. Never even ****_been_**** too Russia."]** I reply.

She stares at me in disbelief, like I'm completely out of my mind or something.

"Well explain, please, _how in __Lake Baikal_ were you able to justhold a **conversation **with me?_" _

I have no reply for her.

"Hey, didn't your mother's ever _teach_ you bitches _'It's rude to speak another language in the presence of an american'?_" asks the big brute. Real big, too. Even seated, his imposing 2.06m, 200kg hulk of a frame wallpapered in military-styled tattoos, is a sight to behold.

"And didn't **your** mamma ever teach you; _'It's rude to open your mouth when you got nothing worth hearing to say?_' Oh, my bad, you probably never even _**met**_ your mamma!"

The black guy speaking either has balls made from low density magnesium or one serious death wish. Either one makes him considerably dangerous, not to mention unpredictable. Mid-30's, weighing a mere 77kg, by my guess, he seems strangely unperturbed by it all. He's a magician too, judging from the way he discreetly produces a paperclip out of the corner of his mouth, before deftly using it to free himself of his cuffs.

As the shackles hit the floor, all eyes switch to the guy holding the shotgun, who bizarrely makes no effort to restrain him. But then... he **_is_** holding a_shotgun._

"Now, what's to stop me reaching over there, taking that weapon from you and beating you to death with it?" asks the black guy, coolly, as he massages his wrists.

"That would be the small electronic device implanted in every one of your thick skulls, boy. We call it 'The **_Kill_** Chip', because, well, that's what it does! Rigged to blow if either of you monkeys step outta line. Or if I get _bored. _Whichever comes first, really."

The voice comes from the front of the van, the passengers side. Male, early 50's, bushy grey beard and matching eye brows. I can tell that cause he's looking right at me through the mesh panel in the wall.

"Yeah? Well how do I know your not bluffing?" asks the black guy.

"Just what do you think that scratching in the back of your head **_is_**, dear boy, chronic head lice?" replies the guy up front.

Cue an exchange of nervous glances between all of us.

"Who are you?" asks 'spectacles'.

_"It doesn't matter who we are, what matters is our plan!"_ comes the rather quirky response.

"Real cute. I name that movie in one." replies the black guy. "Now, you wanna give me some actual answers or I do I beat em outta you once I've finished with your mute boy here?"

"You are _very_ amusing, Dextor Ashley Williams." smiles our captor. "In a... 'pet animal' kinda way, of course. But understand, should you _continue_ to speak outta term, I will be forced to 'put you down' and you _will not be able to participate."_

"Participate? In what?" asks the fiery redhead.

"In today's little... 'social experiment'. Think reality tv, without the 'tv' part, naturally." he grins. "You have each been kindly 'donated' to our cause from various 'contributors' who shall remain anonymous for... well, obvious reasons, really,"

"That's funny." responds the black guy. "Cause I don't remember signing my black ass up to no 'social experiment'. So why don't y'all let me off at the next corner and I'll be bidding you'll dumb asses adieu!"

"Open your eyes, Ass-wipe, this ain't no negotiation!" barks the big guy back at him. "Fact, this whole sorry affair _**stinks**_ of government off-record sanctioning!"

"Well, I guess 'ass', 'wipe' and 'stink' are words you feel **_right_** at home with, ain't that right, ya 'thoroughbred redneck'?" responds the black guy in kind.

"You both seem to have an incredible affiliation with the word 'ass'." mumbles Spectacles, sheepishly. "Kinda making me nervous... being locked up in here with y'all."

Suddenly, the big guy lunges towards the black guy, barely held back by his metal restraints and begins clawing away at him. But the black guy simply grins back at him, blowing a soft gentle kiss in his direction.

Thats when the pain begins. Sudden, sharp, intense, like a shard of jagged glass slowly being driven into the base of my skull. Collectively we scream. The sound, as deafening as it is chilling.

Then, just as quickly, its over. And all eyes, once again, are diverted to the front and our captor, holding a small electronic device.

"That was the first of two settings wired into this little black box. The _second_ will literally blow your mind. Now, keep your pretty little mouths wired shut and pay attention! As much as I believe 'ass-wipe' and 'thoroughbred redneck' would make fitting names for you both, for the purpose of _this_operation you will each simply be given a codename. Remember it. You will need it and the info I'm about to give you to survive the task ahead."

"What... task you speak of?" asks the Russian, cautiously.

He pauses for a moment before responding, but only by pointing to us individually, labelling us with our new titles as he goes along. Starting with me.

"Queen, Knight, Bishop, Rook... and Pawn."

"'Porn'? Do I look like Hugh Hefner to you?" jokes Spectacles with a wry smile. Nobody laughs.

"Ah c'mon, it was a _**joke**_, man. Not one Playboy subscription among you? Geez..."

"Does this look like a laughing matter to you, 'curly fries'?" riffs the clearly rilled black guy, aka 'Knight'. "Then shut your dumb Harry Potter wannabe ass up!"

_"There goes that 'ass' word again."_

"You will refer to me as simply 'King'." continues our captor. "Now, fulfil your appointed roles and you will each receive your due reward. But failure to complete your task will result in a headache no aspirin on earth will be able to cure."

"So what's the task already?" asks Knight.

"The observant among you would have noticed you are each clothed in _uniquely individual_ attire. Queen, a clerk. Bishop, a thug. Knight, a security guard. Rook, a civilian and finally '_Pawn_' thug number two."

"Wait a minute, what is this, some kinda kinky role play?" asks Knight. "Cause that I **_can_** do!" his eyes flicker momentarily in my direction, as mine conveniently linger towards the floor.

"We're here!" growls the driver, as the van comes to a halt.

"Ok, listen up," begins 'King'. "cause I'll only be explaining the plan one time and **_one time only_**. You'll have precisely 18 minutes 36 seconds to complete the task upon initiation. If you are but 1 second late, or deviate from the plan in any way... well... it'll be the last 1 second of your entire miserable lives."

To be continued...


	4. In All My BOURNE Days

1 2 : 0 5 p m

Who am I?

Its a question I've been wrestling with for some time now. Doesn't help that reality seems to be taking a back seat almost every time I open my eyes. Now I'm here staring into a mirror at a face I don't recognise, in the women's restroom of the Santa Marina National Bank.

My childhood is a blank, as is any trace of a young adulthood. In fact I have nothing but fragments of memories with which to draw from. Hardly a reliable psychosis.

Having recently woken up in the back of a military RV with four other strangers, only to be told we've been volunteered to participate in some sort of top secret heist, past experience tells me there's still a lot more going on than what we've been led to believe.

Who is our mysterious captor, referring to himself only as 'King'? Why all this trouble just to steal money? Whoever he is, he must be of some importance, to be able to have gotten hold of technology as advanced as the latex mask in the briefcase beside me. Apparently 'acquired' from an IMF tech-lab, whatever that is. A mask that I'm told is an exact replica of Karen Mulder, the woman I've been instructed to wait here for.

Or the _secondary_ latex mask I happen to be wearing at this very moment to conceal my real identity. Extremely lifelike only slightly older, plumper, a few weathered lines, not quite as... well... pretty?

Ah, so **_that_** would be the reason I don't recognise my reflection.

|_"King to Queen, whats your status?"_| comes the alarming voice in my ear, startling me.

"Err... Hello?" I say, unsure of how I'm supposed to respond or what I'm supposed to be speaking into.

|_"Whats your status on the mark?"_| repeats the gruff voice.

"Still waiting for the... _err_... 'mark' to... appear." comes my staccato-like reply. "She's late. You... _sure_ you guys got the right-"

|_"I would remind you that this is an extremely time-sensitive operat-"_|

"Shh!" I whisper. "Somebody's coming."

And sure enough the entrance door to the rest room opens and in walks...

"Hey."

"Hello." I reply sheepishly, faining a few deep breaths like I was pre-hyperventilating.

"Your new. First day here?" she asks, drawing a correct assumption from the uniform I'm wearing. She looks so much like her mask its... eerie.

"Is it that obvious?" I reply. "I guess the mild panic attack kinda gave it away. To be honest Im not sure what to expect. Haven't done anything like this before, you know?"

"Relax, it's a desk job, not some secret rescue mission somewhere in the deepest depths of Cuba."

"I guess your right." I giggle, nervously reaching my hand out to formally shake hers.

"I'm Karen." she says with a warm smile, which only adds to my guilt of what's about to happen.

"Caroline Lewis." I reply, as our hands shake.

Immediately a powerful sedative-based toxin enters her bloodstream via a small needle protruding out from the special ring I'd been issued with. Within an instant, she's collapsed into my arms and I proceed to drag her limp body into a nearby cubical and close the door. She's a lot heavier than she looks. Must be in the bones.

I pull off the face mask Im wearing and exchange it with the one in the briefcase. It still feels... strange against my skin, though not in an uncomfortable way. At least not physically uncomfortable. Physiologically, I've a feeling the idea of wearing someone else's face, is something that'll long haunt me for quite some time.

"Queen, ready." I whisper "Heading out into the main lobby now.".

|_"Roger that. Remember, you'll need to retrieve the 'mark's' keychain **before** exiting. **Confirm** you **have** the key chain! Repeat."_|

"Yea, yea, sure. 'I **_have_** the key chain'. Jeez." I say, as I detach the bunch of keys dangling from Karen's belt.

|_"pre-game positions, everyone!"|_ barks King.

|"_Knight, ready._"|

|"_Bishop, ready._"|

|"_Rook, ready."_|

|_"Pawn-star, ready."_| giggles Spectacles. Alone, naturally.

I exit the cubical, sliding the latch on the door shut, using the same ring's magnetic qualities. The cubical reads 'occupied' and I proceed to exit the restroom.

"Wow. That's... incredible... I look just like her." I note, catching a reflection of myself, or rather 'herself' in the restroom mirror.

|_"Well, you don't **sound** like her,"_| he informs me. |_"So I'd keep staff interaction at a bare minimal. We weren't able to 'acquire' the voice synthesiser that normally accompanies the mask."_|

"Right. Thanks."

Now he tells me.

|"_All ears on standby, maintain radio silence for 90 seconds. Then we go live. King, out!"_|

Hoping 'radio silence' means I'm _finally_ alone with my own thoughts. At least for the time being. That's when I spot Knight, hovering around in his security guard uniform. He looks nervous, like its his first time doing this kind of gig. It's _**definitely**_ mine, so why aren't I?

He shuffles up beside me, speaking to me in hushed tones, twitching like a loon, but never looking directly at me.

"Okay, you all set?" he asks. "I hope you're all set. We got one shot at this, Queen B. Screw up and they **_will_** carve our asses into dice-like pieces and feed em, barbecued, to a bunch'a third-world villagers, you dig?"

"You ever stop talking **_trash_** 'Knight'?"

"Only once a week, when the **garbage man** comes to collect!"

"Whatever." I sigh. "Just worry about your _own_ role, I got mine covered."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? Truth is, none of us know which roles we're **_truly_** playing. I'm telling you, something's off about this whole affair. I get these flashbacks of me strapped to some kind of device. Bunch a lab coats circling me like crows, speaking a language I don't understand."

"The simulations." I whisper. "You've been put through them too?"

"From what I remember. Overheard I got a 3 out of a 5 score. Not sure if that's a pass or a fail. Guess Ill be finding out today, huh? Guess we **_all_** will!"

"Wait! What do you-?"

Too late, he's gone, disappeared over to his post by the main entrance to the bank. It's a fairly large lobby area, with a row of tills to the left, a neat patch of desks, including mine, to the right and a lotta moving heads in-between.

Still so many questions. But a simulation's only a simulation. If I find myself in a real-life scrap I'm dead. Need to cut loose as soon as an opening presents itself.

"Hey Karen!" greets the young, very keen-looking, cashier behind one of the tills. I smile politely and wave back. Where these two having a... thing?

I catch Rook, aka the Russian, standing at the back of one of the queues leading toward the tills. She glimpses me, giving me the slightest of nods as I take my seat at the 'financial advisors' desk, all the while still not _entirely_ convinced any of this is real.

Nearby, at the end of another queue, is the Pawn-star himself. Dressing for the occasion in a raincoat and nervous twitch. He's positioned perfectly beside two more guards.

The big guy? Nowhere to be seen. Impressive considering his size.

Ahead of me, a customer helps herself to a seat at my desk. She's elderly, real chip on her shoulder about '_the advancement of technology robin us of our freewill'_. She then begins telling me about the extreme case of gout she's been suffering from for as far as she can remember, and that no one in her family cares.

Half-way into her monologue I politely interrupt to ask the customary "How exactly can I help you today, madam?"

In which she replies; "You already have, dear." before getting up and leaving.

Like I said, still not entirely convinced any of this is actually real.

Within seconds, some other guy's stood up from the waiting area and slowly hobbled over towards me. He's old, worn, like a man seasoned in the ways of life. But there's... something about him that's... so familiar. Cant quite...

"Thank you for seeing me again, miss." he says, almost apologetically. "Really hoping, you could go outta y'all way to helping me out, this time. Got nowhere else to turn, see. You're my last hope. Insurance I signed up for don't cover squat."

|_"Okay, listen up everyone."_| barks King in my ear piece. |_"We are going live in 30..."_|

"I need an advance on a loan. Now, I know y'all would wanna tell me I ain't good for it. But please, look into your heart. Find the kindness to-"

"Look, err... buddy. You seem like a really nice guy and I don't **_have_** a lotta time... so perhaps if you come back tomorrow-"

|"_20..._"|

"No. Tomorrow is a luxury owed to no-one. Case in point, about a year ago, I had a thriving business. A diner three blocks from here. Then one evening there was this... shoot out... involving a member of my team. A girl. Real pretty. Hard worker, too. But not the smartest tool in the box, if you know what I mean. Least, that's what I thought..."

"What... happened?"

_|"15..."|_

"There was... this stranger. Seemed normal at the time. Until he pulled a **gun**. That's when... the way she moved. The speed. The ferocity. It was... unreal. She took him apart like he was nothing. Then ran off into some stranger's car, leaving my shot-ass bleeding half to death. Never saw nor heard from her since. Still, hope she's ok, though."

_|"10..."|_

_"_Anyway, lost my business, my wife, lost everything... it was like-"

"I'm sorry," I interrupt, "but this... member of staff of yours... the girl... do you... do you remember her... name?"

_|"5..."|_

"Yes. But I... fail to see what-"

"Her name. Please?"

_|"2..."|_

"Bourne. Her name was... Alexia Bourne."

_|"1...! Execute."|_

To be continued...


	5. BOURNE Survivor

Santa Marina National Bank.

1 2 : 1 5 p m

"Mr... Redmond? But how? You're..."

Gun shots fired, followed by screaming... lots of screaming. Guess this latest mystery will have to be filled along with the other 297. Game time.

**_|"3 minutes!"|_ **announces King, abruptly, and all the pieces move into place.

I look up and see the monstrous frame of a redneck, Bishop, darkening the doorway to the bank, decked in body armour, thick heavy-looking chain around his neck, waving a semi-automatic around like it was the flag of death. At his feet, two security guards lying unconscious, disarmed and taken out in next to no time. He's good. Really good.

Meanwhile, Pawn's discarded his mack in favour of the pump action shotgun he had hidden beneath, and proceeds to bark orders at various members of staff, security and customers alike. He fires a few warning shots in the direction of the cashiers, in an effort to prevent them activating their panic buttons.

It suddenly occurs to me neither Bishop or Pawn are wearing masks. Curious, as to why.

**"Get down! Every body get down now and place your hands above your head!" **screams Pawn

Fear grips the floor as everyone responds in kind. All but Knight, who feigns an attempt at shooting Bishop, only to be stopped cold by Pawn, who strikes him across his face with his weapon. A scripted message to any would-be heroes watching.

"You wanna die a hero or live a coward? Your call, punk!"

Knight raises his trembling hands and the message is received by all, loud and clear.

"Wise decision, my brotha! Now, get up! Alright, we need one more volunteer from the audience, if you please? You!"

He motions towards the Russian, 'Rook', disguised as an elderly civilian and hoists her onto her feet, pleading with him for mercy as she stands. Comical, as in a real scenario I suspect she'd have snapped his neck in a heartbeat.

"Save your lungs, grandma." he tells her. "Do as I tell you, and you'll see the inside of a retirement home yet... as apposed to a nice cosy casket! Ha!"

He then orders her to go around emptying everyone's electronic devices into a large sack whilst Knight is ordered to empty the cash out of every till.

**_|"2 minutes."|_**

Both sacks filled, Pawn grabs a nearby jug of water and empties it inside the sack with the electronic devices and hauls the sack of money on his back.

Thank you for your co-operation he tells them, as he strikes the Russian across the back of her head.

"She'd only have slowed us down!" he barks at the big guy, who's busy staring directly at Knight. Something in his eyes... like a switch that's gone off. Like he's about to... Oh heck!

"**CHANGE OF PLANS!**" he yells, before mercilessly emptying a full clip into Knight.

"What are you doing?" screams a mortified Pawn, in a state of genuine panic.

"Grab another hostage and lets go!" he orders him. "Or I can shoot you too and grab em myself! Your call."

Pawn takes a second to snap himself back into character and after a second or two scouring each 'candidate' on the floor, rests his eyes on... me. Time to go to work.

He drags me to my feet and we head towards the front door.

"Wise decision, my brotha!" teases Bishop.

"Karen! No, leave her alone, take me instead." pleads the cashier from before, in a sweet but not very wise, gesture.

"How about you die in her place?" yells Bishop, aiming his gun towards him. "Or you can sit your ass back down?"

The kid, wisely, crouches back down. But the poor look on his face... one of pure...** pathetic weakness! I'd spit on him, the bloody fool, only I wouldn't want to waste the saliva. Of all the pathetic**\- wait... what am I thinking? Why am I... Perhaps it's the stress... of the scenario...! Yeah, need to not play too strongly into it. Remember who I am... why I'm here... why **_am_** I here?

**_|"1 minute."|_**

Pawn drags me out of the exit and past the big guy, who tosses a handful of smoke grenades back into the bank, filling the entire area in a grey odour-loss cloud, then pulls the chain from around his neck and uses it to secure the double doors.

The 'literal' smokescreen will provide the Russian an opportunity to ditch her mask and slip out unseen when the police arrive in less than 60 seconds. Suppose that was to be Knight's exit-plan too. Only **_he's_** now taken a more 'permanent' route.

Out on the steps, we hear the sirens in the distance closing in, though there's still time. Time for me to escape.

"Where is he?" barks the big guy, apprehensively glancing down the street, as passer-by's all around us run for cover at the sight of the guns Bishop and Pawn are wielding.

"Where is he? Forget 'King', what the blazes was **_that_** all about?" screams Pawn. "We had a plan!"

"Yeah, so did I." he shouts back.

"Only your plan wasn't '**_the_**' plan, was it, big guy? Was it? What the gives you the right to-"

"Ah, stop your moaning, will ya? You sound like the last man I tortured! Your still alive, aren't you? ...Right?"

"...Right." agrees Pawn, disgruntedly.

"**Wrong!**" counters Bishop, before planting one directly through his eyes. All

I can do is stand there in shock.

**_|"30 seconds."|_**

"What... w-what the... w-why would you...?" words fail me as the fear begins to creep in once more.

"The keys, do you have the keys?" he asks. His weapon's now pointing directly at **_me_**. He's going to kill me.

"The what? What keys? You just killed him in cold blood!" I say.

"Actually, it was warm at the time. But granted, it's stone-cold now. Now hand them over!"

**_|"20 seconds."|_**

"For the last time, I have no ide-"

**"DON'T PLAY DUMBER THAN YOU LOOK, BITCH!"**

"**BUT I.**.! Wait, the **_keys_**!" Of course, the keys! The very same keys they insisted I retrieve from Karen Mulder's unconscious body.

"Is that what this is **_really_** all about? A bunch of stupid keys?" I ask.

"Bitch, you got **_no_** idea!"

**_|"10 seconds."|_**

**"Really? I think I do!**" No, its happening again. Losing control. **"You _work_ for King, don't you? A plant from the very start, tasked with cleaning up after the job was done? No witnesses. Only one problem, if _you_ want those keys, you gonna have to pry them from my dead corpse!"**

**_|"5 seconds."|_**

"Don't push me, woman, I'll-"

**"What? You think you _intimidate_ me? Buddy, I squat down and crap guys like you out every morning after breakfast, you overgrown neanderthal. Look into my eyes and tell me you wanna die today and I'll be more than happy to oblige your dumb ass!"**

"You're... you're crazy!" he says, almost as a whisper, eyes bulging wide.

**"Bitch you got no idea!" **I growl.

"**FREEZE!**" shouts several voices from the streets, as we turn to see three to four squat cars surrounding us. Or rather, him.

"Looks like you got screwed yourself!" I tell him, as I turn tail and begin to run. He'll raise his weapon to me to shoot. The police, who already believe me to be a hostage, will shoot to kill. Fitting, but a shame...** I would have _preferred_ to have taken the son of a bitch down myself!**

Gunfire, reverberating behind me, confirms my plan is in effect. Need to ditch the frumpy mask and find somewhere to be. Plan my next move.

Suddenly, a car screeches to a halt in front of me. Black sedan, smoked-out windows. The back passenger door opens.

_|"Get in!"|_

The voice. I'm still wearing my earpiece. It's King, he's in the car. Damn it!

_|"You have very little time, and even fewer options!"|_

He's right. So I get in and continue my descent down the rabbit hole.

To be continued...


	6. BOURNE Lucky

As the sirens fade off into the distance, the memory of the events that unfolded prior to their arrival continue to remain fresh within my mind, given extra credence by the sporadic splatter of Pawn's blood still visible on my staff uniform, face and hands.

"Is... is this... really happening?" I ask, for once praying I will somehow 'awaken' once again as before.

"Last time I asked myself that, The Denver Broncos had just cost me a wee fortune in the playoffs!" comments the decidedly foreign driver. Irish, I believe. "D'ya follow football, at all?"

I'm in the back of a blacked-out sedan. The very same sedan that showed up, in quite timely fashion, to whisk me away just in the nick of time. But at what cost?

It's roomy inside, enough to fit an entire squad of linebackers on any given Sunday. And there's a brisk scent of freshly laid leather permeating the air, as if the car had only recently been purchased.

Or maybe...

**Maybe something recently went down inside of here. A shootout or... an _assassination_... and this guy's the trigger man. Yea... that's why the interiors had to be immediately refurbished. To erase any and all evidence of DNA from the blood splatter, not to mention, GSR remains and... **whoa, what's wrong with me? It's like there's someone else walking around inside my head.

||"_Queen, I need you to confirm wether or not you have the key!"|| _persists King, again in my earpiece. Make that '_two_' people walking around in my head.

"Bishop, he was one of yours, wasn't he?" I ask. "And yet you wilfully hung him out to dry. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

||"_Bishop was a... 'complicated' necessity, who outgrew his usefulness the day he willingly accepted a contract from an external proprietor, to eliminate me at his nearest convenience. He is no longer of concern. But that does, however, leave an immediate opening amongst my 'specialised' task force?_"||

"Ah, if you're referring to me? Sorry dude, I'm about as useful as a 460XVR Revolver with no bullets. In fact, I've got no idea what a 460XVR Revolver is! I-I think I just made it up... probably... can I... get out at the lights? Please?"

||"_Mr Tumnus, if you'd please?_"||

Suddenly, the driver, whom I assume he's referring to, slams the brakes hard, causing me to jolt forward, smashing my face, or rather, 'Karen's' face, against the back of his seat. Reeling, I fall back, looking up to see I'm staring down the barrel of a 9mm Glock with added suppressor. Probably.

"Aye, nothing personal, lass." smiles the driver. But it sure feels like it.

King continues. ||"_Just so we are both clear regarding the matter, you are only alive on the off-chance you have hidden the key at a remote location. I am well versed in the details of your, rather disturbingly graphic, file. But be under no illusion as to the extent of my patience or the expectancy of your life beyond it's retrieval. Unless you willingly cooperate!** Now tell me, where is it?"**_||

"I'd do as he says, pet." advises the driver. "Please? I've only _just_ had the car refurbished!"

"H-how do I know you w-wont try and **_kill me_** once I've... handed it over?" I ask.

||"_You don't_"|| replies King, bluntly.

**"Too bad!"** I say. "**Because I will!**"

Suddenly, In less than an 8th of a second, I've somehow snatched the driver's weapon from his grasp and am now pointing it towards him, the surprised look on his face paling in comparison to the shock of my own.

"H-how...?" marvels the driver in disbelief. "How... in _blazes_ did you...?"

"Honestly, I wish I knew!" I reply, right before striking him across the temple with the butt of the pistol.

**Of course, I could just as easily have killed him. A simple squeeze of the trigger and 'presto', one less person to worry about further down the line. **

But I choose to let him live, albeit with a pounding headache. Why? Because that's not who I am. That's not _what_ I am. I'm just a simple girl with no memory of her past, mistakingly caught up in this... _extremely_ bizarre nightmare. A simple girl who needs to get her ass moving before more of King's goons show up!

I make my exit out of the car and down the nearest alleyway.

||"_That's the last mistake you will ever make, child."| _screams King down my ear._ |"There's nowhere you can run to without me finding you! And I **will** **FIND YOU!**||_

"_I'm not running or hiding, you idiot," _I tell him._ "I'm coming straight for you! And better believe there's nowhere YOU can run to hide from ME!_"

I rip the earpiece out and dump it and the gun in the nearest trash can, and continue _running_ to find some place to _hide! _Don't know why I keep saying those stupid things. But I need to find out, before they get me into serious trouble. Or I wind up dead.

Time passes as I continue to navigate a series of seemingly identical alleyways, all to the sound of distant sirens as they continuing to screech throughout the air. 'Denver Broncos' the driver said. Does that mean I'm... in Denver?

A police patrol car screeches to a halt up ahead of me at the alley's entrance. I quickly dart towards a nearby building but find the door's locked. But it's okay, a swift front kick's as good a key as any.

Closing the door behind me, I duck down and wait for the silence settle. My hearts pounding so loud I can practically hear it echoing all around me. No. It's no **_my_** heart... but someone else's.

I turn around slowly to discover I'm in the large rear kitchen of some kind of... restaurant. One that serves _oriental cuisine_, if the _scents_ anything to go by. And... blood. I smell... fresh blood.

All around me, dead bodies. Chefs, waitresses and... men in black suits. It's total carnage. Sickening.

I look ahead towards the kitchens entrance to see the only man visibly alive. He's wounded badly, sitting on the floor, using his body to block the entrance door from opening. But from whom?

He's Korean, I think... maybe. Hard to tell, there's so much blood on his face. He ties a strand of torn cloth around his wounded right arm with he's teeth, whilst holding a gun in the other. Blood trickles down over his left eye as it blinks sporadically. So much rage inside them. So much hatred. He stares at me silence and I stare back in kind. He's trying to say something, but the loss of blood is making it increasingly difficult enough for him to remain conscious. But finally, he whispers...

["White... tiger."]

Before blacking out and collapsing on the floor completely.

["**Come out, Hazuki-san. And I promise your death will be honourable and swift. Continue to resist and I am afraid the old man _will_ get his wish**."]

The voice hails from what I'm guessing is the main section of the restaurant. Aggressive. Callous. Who are these people? What have I stumbled into?

Suddenly, the doors are jared opened, abruptly pushing 'Hazuki-san's' body unceremoniously to one side as two Japanese guys in sharp suits stride in. One immediately catches sight of me and instantly raises his weapon. I hold my hands up in surrender, trying _desperately_ to avoid eye contact. And visibly peeing myself.

["**Who are you?**"] barks the fist guy, as he slowly walks towards me.

["_Ah_... me? Nobody. And I-I mean that q-quite literally, I have no idea who I am! Really."] I reply, with a nervous smirk.

He glances back to his friend, who's busy relishing the sight of seeing 'Hazuki-san' almost certainly en route to meeting his maker. That's when it dawns on me, there's no way I'm getting out of this place alive!

"Look, please let me go!" I plead. ["I promise you, I won't tell a _sole_ what I have seen here. I don't even know who any of you **_are!_**"]

A peculiar look of confusion bounces between them. Then the first guy turns back towards me.

["You're... _Korean_ is considerably good, American."] he inexplicably tells me. Why exactly, I have no idea, but I decide to play along.

["Right, right. Thanks, really! But hey, **if you're impressed with that, you're gonna _love_ my next trick!**"]

Not quite sure _**why**_ I say that or do what I then go on to do, but slowly I begin... _peeling _away my bloodstained face, feigning pain as I let out a blood curdling scream. Of course, it's not my _real_ face, but the latex mask Ive been wearing for the better part of an hour, but to them... well, the look on both of their faces is pure comedy gold. And the petrified glances they continue to give one another provides me with just the window of opportunity I need... **to strike. And strike I do.**

Within seconds, I've disassembled the gun of the guy nearest to me, removing the slide from the barrel before driving it deep into his neck. By the time his colleague has realised and opened fire, I've already used his friends body as a shield, etching my way towards him, before hurling the slide with such force at him it sinks derp into his chest.

As the two bodies collapse simultaneously to the floor, I just stand there, staring deep into my hands as if they were somebody else's.

"W-what... have... I... done?"

["Saved... a fortunate... young fool's... life...!"] replies an unlikely croaky voice. Hazuki-san. He's still alive. Barely.

Suddenly, the door behind me bursts open and three more armed Korean's rush in. Seeing me, they instantly raise their weapons, and are about to fill me with led, when the half-dead guy suddenly intervenes.

["**No! **She... saved... my life. Bring her... with us...!"] he orders them.

I don't exactly have a choice in the matter, as the visibly oldest of the three motions for me with his gun to exit back out of the door whilst the other two help their injured boss up before all five of us jump into a car and speed off to who knows where.

And I thought my day couldn't get any worse.

To be continued...


	7. BOURNE With A Silver Spoon

It's a long silent drive to nowhere.

At least, that's the destination I'm told we're heading towards, every time I ask.

Better hurry, too. At this rate there wont be anything left of ole 'Hazuki-san' the way he's continually bleeding out. Multiple lacerations on both arms and legs, at least two gunshot wounds three inches away from his heart, topped with a seriously nasty-looking gash on his forehead. He's a fighter, I give him that, but even then he's only mortal. Right?

So much blood in one day. And some of it by my own hand, which I still can't believe. Those men, I killed them without thinking twice. Heck, I didn't even think the first time. Who am I? What am I?

Eventually we turn off into a series of alleyways before ending up in a huge underground car park.

Engine still running, we get out, and quickly make our way towards a set of ultra modern-looking elevators. Leading upwards into some sort of large office facility of some kind, I'm guessing. High level too, from the military spec security detail patrolling the entire area.

Immediately they spot us and ready their weapons. Not against us though, but rather against the potential threat of danger that may or may not have followed us here.

Once inside the lift, the eldest guy, whom I realise is sporting a rather nifty-looking pointy grey beard, slots a special key into the control panel and twists it anti-clockwise. Within seconds the 'out of order' light begins flashing like some norse coded signal.

Wait a minute, it is a norse code signal. Probably sending a message to whoever's in the control room to alert them of the key's activation. Suddenly we begin moving, for what appears to be a very long time. Must be a one heck of a tall building.

On the way up, the whole 'silent treatment' act slowly begins stretching my patience beyond breaking point, forcing me to spurt out the first question that springs to mind.

"Where are we?"

Nothing. Not even an eye twitch.

"Look, if you're gonna kill me, get it over with already, it's been a really long day."

"If we wanted to kill you, your lifeless corpse would have joined the others back at the restaurant." he replies, finally. "Mr Hazuki has seen fit to allow you to live, be it temporarily. I, for one, would not waste those precious moments making non-essential enquires that bare little to no relevance to the outcome of your circumstance."

"So... where are we again?" I ask.

But before he can answer, the familiar 'pings' of the elevator signals the end of the journey and the doors slide open. And my jaw... well, lets just say 'it drops'. Hard.

As I look around in awe, the first thing I see is the exquisitely polished marbled floor, perfectly reflecting the abstract flourishes of artwork that coat the expansive high-rise ceiling, each piece depicting a battle from a generation long since forgotten. Dotted around the area, beautifully hand-crafted pieces of furniture steeped in both Japanese and Chinese lore. And at the centre of the room, an almost mystic cloud of steam emanates from a large circular jacuzzi embedded deep within the floor, that practically begs to be stepped into. And beside it, a strikingly realistic life-size model of a black panther, slouches casually.

So realistic, in fact, it's eyes almost appear to follow us as we cross the expansive floor area towards a large set of Japanese-styled sliding doors awaiting on the other side.

"That's... pretty impressive. How do you make it do that?" I ask, in awe of the illusion.

"Do what?" replies 'grey beard'.

Just then the panther lets out a humungous yawn, teeth-baring and all, and I find myself suddenly in immediate need of a bathroom.

"It's real? It's a real frigging panther? C'mon!"

"My Hazuki's most trusted and loyal companion. Only, don't tell that to Mrs Hazuki." he quips. I ain't laughing.

"Right. Sure. Lips-are-sealed." I say, my mouth quivering independently.

They carry their wounded boss across the floor through the double doors and into what appears to be a bedroom. I never find out as the last guy slides the door shut behind them and positions himself in front of it like a doorman. Leaving me to just stand there like a plumb without a pudding.

"Right. Ok, well it's been fun and dare I say, educational, but I really need to get going. Really. I'm serious."

He says nothing. No movement. No acknowledgement. In fact, I'd have sworn he wasn't even alive if I hadn't only just witnessed him walking.

"You guys aren't big on conversation much, are you?"

Still nothing.

"My point exactly. Okay then, guess I'll be on my way. Tell your boss 'thanks for the tour' when he wakes up. If he wakes up."

As I turn to leave, cautiously making my way past man's new best friend, I hear the double doors slide open behind me.

"And where is it you will go?" asks the voice. It's ole 'pointy grey beard' again.

"Not sure. I'll let you know when I get there." I reply, as it suddenly dawns on me I have no actual idea. "How is he?"

"Resting. The finest doctors in the state will ensure his recovery is swift and complete."

"Right. Well, later."

I turn once more to leave.

"Mr Hazuki would like to extend you his hospitality in exchange for your assisting him earlier. The top two floors offer 'adequate' living quarters for those deemed worthy enough to dwell in them. For a short time, of course." he says.

"Stay here? In a place like this? Couldn't afford it, pal. Thanks all the same."

"You could if your salary permitted it?"

"Yea, but to have a salary I'd have to first have a job, right?"

"Good. You have now identified the quickest route to your immediate problem's solution."

"I who-what-what?" I ask.

"Mr Hazuki would like to offer you a job!"

To be continued...


	8. NewBOURNE

NEWBOURNE

I've got to admit, when Kenzo aka the 'grey-bearded' one, initially informed me of Hazuki-san's job offer, my immediate, and frankly disturbing thought was 'I wonder who I have to kill?'. Now, one week later, having been fully integrated into the company fold, the only thing I find myself killing is... well, time.

Now a fully fledged employee of Hazuki Enterprises Manhattan corporate branch, I find myself punching and crunching numbers as apposed to faces and bones. In fact, if not for the bundle of keys I extracted from bank clerk prior to the robbery, I'd think the entire episode was some elaborate dream my mind had cooked up.

Still unclear as to why those keys were of such high value. Or, for that matter, how I was single-handedly able to take down a pair of gun-totting Japanese hitmen unarmed. But I guess none of that matters anymore now I have a chance to start over with a new life.

At least that terrible voice in my head has stopped.

It's a fascinating layout here at 'The Tower'. That's what they nicknamed it. Of the 124 floors that make up the entire structure, the 122nd hosts a mixture of mini-mall units and recreational activities for the strictly privileged among his staff. The floor above it, plush living quarters for Hazuki's inner circle of employees along with a number of guest quarters, including my very own. And on the very top floor, the daddy of all penthouses housing the man himself.

My job, here on the 88th floor amidst an open planned sea of semi-partitions, is simple. Enter the details of various contractors, employees, shareholders et all, into a large online database. No time limit. Come and go as I please. It's the perfect job.

Hazuki himself I haven't seen since our rather bloody first encounter a week ago. Still on the mend, I'd imagine. Although I have glimpsed the rather stunning Mrs Hazuki, strutting in and out of the building. Only stopping, on odd occasions, to deliver an icy cold glare in my direction. She obviously, for whatever reason, doesn't approve of my being here.

Now I'm on my way to Kenzo's office, for the first of what I guess will be many weekly debriefs. He's not so bad after all.

"Enter." he shouts, as I knock on his office door at the far side of the room.

The walls of his office, itself decorated in more shades of grey than I thought possible, are adorned with several framed prints of revolutionary breakthroughs in software and engineering achieved by the company in the last 20 or so years. That's what they do. Successfully invent cutting edge next-gen software and hardware, before selling on the technology for millions to feuding computer giants.

Hazuki's only rival being; Paper House Limited. A similar company who's research is funded by corporate mogul and director of the G.E.E.; Greystoke Energy Enterprises, Dorian Grey. Yeah, like the oil painting.

"Your first week here at H.E, how are you finding it?" asks Kenzo, relaxed in his full grain leather swivel chair.

"It's, you know, cool and stuff." I answer. "Think I got the hand of it all, you know, with all the... I'm sorry, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to be answering questions... still new to... this...!"

He smiles and I go several shades redder.

"And your colleges? Those who work around you in section 88 East, what are your thoughts on them?"

"They're okay, I guess. Well, Polly seems to have that annoying habit of yawning loudly come the end of every shift. And Martin, happily married father of four, I always catch in reflections ogling my behind every-time I walk by. Nikita, the french girl with the killer hair cut, she's pretty cool. Almost too cool. We've done lunch a couple of times. Stuart Paterson, now he's a guy with no real life. First at his desk when I come in, last at his desk when I... leave... sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

He gets up and wanders over to the large window, hands in pockets.

"Somebody is leaking highly classified information to our competitor over at Paperhouse. Have been for quite some time now."

"Oh. Right. I... see."

"Over the last 6 months we have... shuffled the seating of various employees who have, for one reason or another, attracted our attention. Gradually whittling them down to the seven candidates that make up your section of the east wing."

"Alright. So you... what, want me to spy on them for you?"

He turns to face me and his usually stern expression suddenly evolves into a gentle smirk.

"Of course not. Simply... keep an eye open for anything... strange." he tells me.

"Sure. No problem."

"That will be all." he tells me, as he turns his attention back towards the window.

I get up to leave, but just before I reach the door, I spin around one final time.

"How's he doing? Ole' Hazuki?"

"See for yourself." he tells me. "He has requested to see you and awaits your arrival at his suite on the top floor."

"Oh. Okay, then I guess I should... maybe go up and see him?"

He's silent, enough to make me feel all the more dumber for even asking.

I turn and leave, making my way back through the large open plan office, towards the main lifts in the foyer area. Once inside the lift, I insert my specially assigned key in the wall panel, twisting it anti-clockwise and wait as the lift begins to move.

For some unknown reason my heart-rate suddenly decides to increase as a single beed of sweat abseils down the surface of my forehead and along the tip of my nose, before diving off onto the ground below. As I wipe my face clean with the sleeve of my shirt I hear the ominous ping that signals the arrival at my destination as the doors open, as a gravelly voice speaks;

["**Little Tiger.**"]

To be continued...


	9. To A Manor BOURNE

**To The Manor BOURNE**

The penthouse suite. Still as mesmerisingly gorgeous as when I last saw it, one week ago.

And still home to that huge bloody cat of his, whose beady eyes have seemed to have been alerted to my presence once again.

Ahead of me, on a large charcoal-grey crash matt, performing a series of complex combat manoeuvres like something out of a Bruce Lee movie, is Hazuki. Punches, kicks, backflips, all are present and being carried out deftly precision. The dude's jaw-droopingly good.

"Looking pretty good for somebody who, only a week ago, looked pretty half-dead!" I yell at him over the thumping background music.

["Music, off!"] he commands. "And you, my dear, are looking pretty good for somebody who, only a week ago, looked pretty average." he replies. "And say, weren't you a blonde back then?"

"What?"

Ah, of course. Last time we met I was disguised as Karen Mulder, bank clerk at the Santa Marina National. Always thought it was weird that Kenzo never questioned it. So how the heck am I gonna explain this to him?

"Let me guess;" he begins, "An intensely treated oil-based polymer, processed via an organic synthesising chemical compound to produce perfect skin-like replications for limited external usage?"

"I... how... how would you possibly know all that?" I ask, deeply confused.

"Because we invented it." he tells me, matter-of-factly. "At least, my father did back in 1966. Initially conceived as a means to assist extreme-cases in burn victims, to help reintegrate them back into society. The technology was subsequently sold on to a government rep by the name of Peter Graves, probably an alias, for what ultimate purpose it was never revealed."

"Until now. I guess."

"The work we do here at H.E. is revolutionary on the worst of days, beyond that, life-changing. Whatever the real reasoning behind the acquirement of that technology is irrelevant, just so long as the bill is being paid."

"Hey, look, no need to explain, I'm not here to judge. Actually, why am I here?"

"Because I... wanted to 'thank' you." he tells me. I can tell from the awkwardness it's not something he's used to saying.

"Look, about that...! Now, I'm not one to bite the hand that's feeding me... not to mention, clothing me, putting a roof over my head, employing me... but rescuing you that day wasn't the reason I did... whatever it is you think I did... back at the restaurant... when you think I did it." I explain, somewhat cryptically.

"I find your false modesty at odds with your true nature. I'm curious, who or what is it that you see when you stare into the mirror?" he asks.

A killer!

"No-one of... any consequence." I reply, sheepishly.

"I see." he says, casually walking over to a wooden rack of assorted historical swords and spears. Suddenly, without warning, he flicks a sword up using his feet (?), before somehow kicking it in my direction, whilst grabbing another in his hand to follow it.

As the sword spins motionlessly in the air towards me, almost in slow motion, fear grips me once more, rooting me to the spot, numbing my limbs. All I can do is shut my eyes and wait for the inevitability of death to arrive.

Funny, it's said that a person's life flashes before their eyes in that very moment death comes a'knocking. At first, I thought my lack of such a vision was purely down to the fact I don't have much in the way of memories to begin with.

But then I finally open my eyes and see the real reason. That for me, today... is simply not my day to die.

"What... happened?" I ask, standing there. Sword in hand.

"It's simple. I attacked you." he tells me. "Giving you the most minimal of chances to defend yourself. Which you did, catching the first sword, before using it to block the second."

As far fetched as it sounds, he appears to be telling the truth. I am holding the sword in a defensive position, blocking Hazuki's blade, itself a mere inch away from my left eye.

"You... you tried... to kill me?" I ask, still in shock.

He calmly takes the sword from me and places both of them back inside the rack. Over his shoulder I swear I can almost see that massive black cat of his smiling to herself, smugly.

"Kill you? I'd wager, if it were that simple you would have died a week ago back at the restaurant. Who are you? Really?" he asks.

"Really? I have no idea." I tell him. "Look, I... involuntarily got involved with some things... bad things... out there. Which means... which means there's probably people out there... looking for me. Right now. I'm talking very... very..."

"'Bad people'. I get it. Perhaps... I can help you? Piece together who you were? We have some of the best psyche-analysts in the world. Stress levels can be pretty high around here. Not to mention a handful of contacts in several government organisations."

Sounds perfect. But I can't drag him into my mess. Got more than enough on his plate already. Doesn't need me adding to it. I mean, who was I kidding?

"Thanks but I'll... be alright." I tell him. "Listen, inside here, away from it all... this works for me, I've gotta be honest. But if this isn't working for you...! What I mean is, maybe I should-"

"No. Stay, please. After all, you're probably the best data-inputer we've hired in the past two years."

We laugh. But we both know it's superficial.

"When you are ready to talk, I will be ready to listen. Until then, I will be honoured if you would... grace me with your company this evening?"

"Err... sure." I say. "Where we going?"

"To see an old associate." he tells me. But why do I get the feeling he's still being superficial?

A 45 minute drive later and we're outside a club somewhere on Midtown East.

"This is most unwise, Hazuki-san." advises the driver, whose none other than 'the grey-bearded one', Kenzo. "As was your insistence in not brining adequate back-up."

"It was my call to make, so quit bitching about it. Give us 15 minutes." Hazuki tells him as we make our way out of the car, before muttering under his breath, "Old fart."

I smile to myself at their cute almost father-son relationship, as Hazuki leads me towards the main entrance to the club, bypassing a train of scantly clad party goers cuing up beside the wall. The doorman, or make that 'door-ogre', gives him a faint nod of recognition before stepping aside to allow us in.

Inside, the club interior is reminiscent of a scene from the last Tron movie. Okay, so I do remember something. All neon lights, thumping techno music and... 3D holograms?A large circular dance-area dominates the centre of the floor.

A set of stairs to the far left spiral upwards towards a large suspended room attached to the ceiling, surrounded by frosted glass. At the foot of those stairs is a bodyguard so big, he makes the guy out front look like Justin Bieber.

The guy at the top of the stairs sports a mean pair of dark glasses and an even meaner moustache. He's considerably smaller, yet somehow manages to give off a much nastier vibe."

"Why am I here?" I ask, over all the noise. "Personally, I'm more of a jazz enthusiast myself. At least I... think I am."

"Observation." he tells me. "What do you see?"

"I see a room full of maybe a hundred or so people getting their groove on, resulting in an electricity bill that'd probably end famine in at least 2 third-world countries I know of. There's a set of stairs to the left leading up to where I guess the club owner is being pampered."

"His name is Derek Chan." he informs me. "His father was a former employee of my father's when he was alive. Did a handful of 'special jobs' for him. As part-payment, his son Derek was given a lump sum to establish this venue which was a pipe-dream of his. The doorman at the bottom of the steps is 'Kong', as in 'King'. He served in the Chinese Special Forces for 8 years before being dishonourably discharged for bad conduct."

"I can only imagine." I say.

"Look him up when your back at your computer. You'll be both shocked and surprised. The guy at the top of the stairs is called 'Porcupine', due to an unhealthy penchant for sharp objects."

"Let me guess, also special forces?"

"Nope. Just a stone cold killer who really loves his job." he says. "A personalised hitman, brought in to erase the type of 'problems' that refuse to go away."

"Wait a minute, is this something to do with you being attacked at the restaurant?" I ask, suddenly getting a very bad feeling.

"I don't know." he tells me. "Let's go ask him."

To be continued...


	10. The BOURNE Connection

**The BOURNE Connection**

Right about now, I'm hoping that I'm dreaming.

Of course, the likelihood is I'm not, as I've been pinching myself constantly for the past 5 minutes with absolutely nothing to show for it but a sore arm.

To think, a mere 8 minutes ago, everything seemed to be... well... **_fairly_** stable in my world.

But a lot can happen in 8 minutes.

Take Hazuki and I. Having arrived at renown nightclub Rising Son, owned by a 'Derek Chan', a smalltime wannabe crime lord with loose ties to Hazuki's dead father, we were given the okay by his personal hired muscle to make our way up the long spiral steel-meshed staircase to his private pad above.

Dubbed 'The Love Hut' for reasons I care not to even contemplate, we recieve a second 'okay' from bodyguard number two, his private assassin poster by the door, and we finally enter the room itself.

It's a den of iniquity, artfully suspended beneath the building's high rise ceiling by a myriad of steel cables and beams, and decked out in 60's styled furnishings, with walls garnished in pink and blue hues that evoke an era he wasn't even alive in, not to talk of evoking nostalgia from.

["Hazuki-san. Thank God you are alright!] he greets him, sincerely. ["I heard what had happened to you back at your mother's restaurant."]

Yep, it's the man, Chan, himself. Late thirties, 5'10, waif-like, Armani suit, sitting behind a gigantic desk. A hot female muse sprawled out at one end, and at the other...

"Wow." I say, glancing at the mountain of packeted substance. "Either you're planing on baking one **_gigantic_** cake or that's **actually**-"

["The bitch can leave!"] hisses Hazuki under his breath.

She does so with alarming urgency, grabbing her jacket before exiting out of the door.

["Hey. Now that... wasn't _nice_, brother!"] comments Chan, leaning back in his chair.

["'Brother'?"] smiles Hazuki, slowly making his way around the desk towards him.

Suddenly, he grabs Chan's head by the ears and slams it into the desk like a district judge adjourning court. Not content with that, he then takes a pair of industrial-sized scissors from a nearby pen holder and proceeds to threaten to cut his earlobe off.

["**My father's greatest single error was showing your pathetic family an ounce of his consideration and time. Rest assured, I will not partake in his folly.**]"

["**Please... please... what do you... want from me?**"]

["**An answer to a question. And pray it's the right one!**"] growls Hazuki.

["**Anything! What... is it... that you want... to know?**"] asks Chan.

["**Why?**"] asks Hazuki, cryptically.

["Why what? What are you... talking about?"] asks Chan.

["**You are not '_listening_' to me, Chan! So I take it you will not be needing these!**"]

Hazuki proceeds to press down on the scissors as Chan lets out a curdling scream.

Now obviously, with all the noise being made you'd think the killer with the knife fetish mere metres away on the other side of the door would have surely come running by now, right?

Wrong. I would later discover that the idiot that is Derek Chan requested the finest soundproofing tech on the planet be installed during the rooms construction. Designed, coincidently, by Hazuki Enterprises. And just another means to ensure he's _undisturbed_ during his regular 'private functions'.

"Wow. Is that blood?" I ask, quesily. "Really? Okay, think I'm gonna throw up. Yep, definitely gonna throw up! Bathroom please, Mr Chan, if you could point the way?"

["**No, please, Hazuki-san, I beg of you...!**"] he pleads, as Hazuki eases up on the pain-giving, momentarily at least.

["**Speak wisely, 'brother'!**"] warns Hazuki with eerie sincerity.

["Please, please... I swear to you, I know nothing about the hit on your life! Whoever it was I was not involved... On the grave of my father, I swear! But I **_will_** find out for you who did! I have... **_sources_**. **_Extensive sources_**. Give me till the end of the week!"] he pleads.

["You have 24 hours."] replies Hazuki, before slamming his head one last time into the desk. Lights out for Chan.

["**We need to leave. Now!**"]

And time for us to exit.

"But... the bathroom... I really need... forget it!"

We quickly make our way out of the room, past 'Porcupine', who's busy being distracted by Chan's over-flirtatious muse, who obviously hasnt travelled far, and make our way down the steps towards the dance floor.

At this point my hearts beating so hard it almost drowns out the thumping techno track currently decimating the crowds eardrums.

Next up, at the foot of the stairs, the man-gorilla known as 'Kong'. His small pin-like eyes pierce out towards us, glancing casually up the steps for signs of a disturbance and seeing nothing but his colleague at the top 'amusing' himself with his visitor.

Seeing all appears to be well, he shifts his huge monolithic frame to one side and we pass. So far, so lucky.

We hit the dance floor, making our way through the crowd towards the main entrance like a fisherman wading through shallow water. I can almost feel the eyes of every clubber locked onto us. They're probably not of course, but thats how it feels. Every eye, watching us intently... suspiciously... just a few more meters to the door and we'll be-

["**HEY YOU, STOP!**"] a voice behind us commands.

Urgent in its tone and definitely hostile, we cease walking immediately. Holding our positions, waiting... I catch sight of the large scissors from Chan's office slowly slide out from under Hazuki's jacket sleeve, readied to inflict maximum pain at a moment's opportunity.

Then we sense it, someone directly behind us... brushing past us... then walking ahead of us, towards a blonde in a tight red skirt up ahead who's about to walk out the front door.

["**Holly, wait up! I gave you what you wanted, at least leave me you're phone number?**"]

Men.

We brush pass them both, exit the building and jump into the waiting car. The engines running hot and grey-beard looks impatiently pissed.

Doors slammed shut, he nails the pedal with his foot and we speed off down the road, sans incident, sans trouble, and I exhale for what seems to be the first in a very long time.

"**ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FRIGGING SAMURAI MIND?" **I scream at Hazuki from the backseat. **"YOU COULD HAVE GOT US BOTH KILLED!"**

["**Tell her to be silent!**"] he orders Kenzo, as he wires a small device to the car stereo, fiddling with what appears to be its antenna. A _transmitter_ of some kind, I guess.

Kenzo looks up at me through the rearview mirror. "**Mr Hazuki would much prefer you would remain si-"**

"Hey, I know what the dude said, alright? That guy back there saw my **face**! I'm an _accessory to torture_. Your enemies are now **my** enemies. Next time he or one of his goons sees me on the street, **they're putting a bullet in my-!**"

Suddenly, as if on cue, a barrage of bullets pepper the car from behind, one even sailing through my hair mere millimetres away from my face before continuing its journey through the windscreen glass. It's Chan and his men outside of the club. And he looks pissed.

["**DRIVE**."] screams Hazuki to Kenzo.

"**D'ya see what I mean?**" I scream at Hazuki.

["**YES, WE ALL BLOODY SEE WHAT YOU MEAN!**"] Screams Kenzo at me, as the sound of gunfire fades into the distance.

Eventually we're blocks away. Hazuki's still fiddling with that damn gizmo of his, I'm silently staring out of the window in a sulk, and Kenzo's doing his best to keep the car from swerving off of the road.

Wait, what?

Suddenly, he slouches to one side, before collapsing onto Hazuki all together. I grab the steering wheel from the backseat, just about managing to steer us into a pile of garbage bags on a sidewalk, and eventually bringing us to a halt.

"**HE'S SHOT!**" I scream, paniked. "**We need to get him to a hospital!**"

["**Silence**!"] shouts Hazuki, sliding him back into the drivers seat.

But before I can respond, I hear it. It's static at first, but eventually a familiar voice begins to filters through... it's coming from the transmitter in Hazuki's hand.

Hazuki leans in and listening intently. It's **Chan**. And he's **_definitely_** pissed!

|"**_Of cour- I'm f- sure! The son of a b- nearly to- my mother- ear off!_**"|

I'm surmising at this point, that at some time during the whole 'conversation' and head-banging thing, Hazuki cleaverly managed to slip a **bug** underneath Chan's table.

Being the room was extensively sound proofed it must be some serious piece of tech! Then again, it was Hazukis own people who installed the thing. Regardless, its now very apparent that he never intended to go there for answers. He already **_knew_** them. Touché.

|"**_Unfortunate? Mr Dolinskii, you promised you would take care of thi- in a way that it would not lead back to me. This doesn't look like its being ta- care of! Yes sir. Of course, I understand..._**"|

'Dolinskii'. Polish? Russian? Who is he? What's his connection to the hit on Hazuki? More to the point, why do I give a crap?

|"**_Yes, sir! My informant within the CIA has finally come up with a name; Nicky Parsons._**"|

Nicky Parsons. Why does that name sound familiar? Is she someone from my past? If so, which one?

|"_**She is an ex mid-level operative, believed to have worked on some secret government programme, to which sh- oversaw many of their logistical operations. My source claims she should be a- to supply you with all the intel you require to fini- your experiment!"**_|

Experiment? Okay, there's seriously no way this is all a coincidence.

|"_**Thank you sir, you are... most... generous!**_"|

Conversation ends and Hazuki immediately drags Kenzo into the passenger seat, before climbing behind the wheel and starting the car up again.

"Okay, we need to get to a hospital. And quick." I advise.

["We have the most advanced doctors working for us onsite. Hang in there, old friend!"] he tells Kenzo, as we speed off down the road back towards home.

And hopefully answers.

To be continued...


	11. THE BOURNE REGRESSION

**THE BOURNE REGRESSION**

It's week 4 in the self-contained corporate oasis that is Hazuki Enterprises, mere days after the shooting incident, and Im on my way up to the 121st floor to visit my line-manager, Kenzo Tanaka, who I hear is making a remarkable recovery over in their in-house medical department.

Ryo I haven't seen since the shooting. No doubt hiding out of shame for how he behaved. Yea, right.

Kenzo's relationship to Ryo is... well... peculiar to say the least. At all times equal parts father, elder brother, uncle, tutor and friend. Their bond is adhesively tight, but at the same time I did witness Ryo jeopardise Kenzo's life at the expense of acquiring Intel. So clearly there's an alternate Peking order from Ryo's end.

As for the Intel itself, the mere mention of the name 'Nicky Parsons has me wondering-

"Floor-121, Miss Mulder. Have a nice day!" intrudes a polite and feminised digital voice. Never noticed it before. Not to say it wasn't there.

I step out of the lift and make my way across the briskly-white hallway, past several interweaving medics on various duties, past security guards sporadically stationed outside the even-numbered doors, towards the last room on the left, and knock.

"Enter." responds a surprisingly well-sounding voice. So I do.

"Hey, Grey-err... Kenzo! You look surprisingly spritefull, how you feeling?"

"I am feeling. So that is something." he replies, typically.

"I'd say. You nearly died out there. Which increasingly seems to be something of a requisite around this place."

"We all have... obstacles to face. The feeling of... satisfaction comes... by overcoming them."

"Right... that's all very... wise-sounding. In theory, anyway."

"You have... information for me?" he asks.

"Yes, I-say, did the lifts always talk to you when we arriving at a floor?"

"We are a technology conglomerate, Miss Mulder. Every day presents a step in that evolution. Now... the information?"

"Oh, right. My little 'secret mission'...!" I whisper, humourlessly. He doesn't appear amused. "Okay then! So, I've been watching everyone in Section 88 East... like a bird of pray with insomnia... anyway, not much has been happening, day to day... or so I thought! Upon closer inspection it transpires our regular workhorse without a stable that is 'Stuart Paterson' is not quite all what he seems."

"Go on." he says.

"Well... every evening at 7:58pm, without fail, he collects his things, tides his desk and takes his glasses off, cleans them before packing them away and leaving!"

There's silence as I stand there, waiting for a response, staring at him staring back at me waiting to continue. Awkward.

"...And?"

"Well... that's it!" I say before expanding, somewhat. "Think about it... why would you clean your glasses after your shift had ended and before you'd put them away?"

"Because... they were... 'dirty'?"

"Right. Well, yes... I suppose that's... one reason. The other being... well... something else entirely. It's not so much what he does as how he does it. His movements, precise timing, everything is identical. My instinct tells me it means something. You put me there to utilise those instincts!"

"Indeed."

More silence follows. Eventually.

"Floor 99, 7h. IT department. There is a technician there... named Kyle Stoneman. A modern day… wizard of the microchip era. He will… look into your claim. Return to me with your findings. Do not... under any circumstance… attempt to confront Mr Paterson on your own. Is that understood?"

"Okay. Sure. Will do." I should get up and leave, but I can't. Not yet.

"Is there... something else?" he asks.

"No. Yes! Well, back when you were shot, Mr Hazuki... he... didn't seem too... fazed by it all?"

"Careful not to confuse that which you see externally with what transpires internally." he advises. "This... circumstance... he has since found himself trapped inside... it will require him to go to a place... very few of us would dare acknowledge even existed."

"So he figured he'd drag you and I along for the ride, huh?"

"Ryo is a man of proud principles. Being so has survived him this long. But these times have seen his inner circle of trust decrease with rapid swiftness. He took both you and I alone because we representative of that circle."

"Doesn't make it right." I say.

"You seem... different… than before. You have… changed." he asks with genuine concern.

"Maybe... I just woke up." I shrug. "You look after yourself, Kenzo. Get some rest."

["Plenty of time to rest when I am dead!"]

I turn and slowly exit the room. Behind me I can feel his eyes piercing into my back. Not out of anger, but out of... affection?

Back inside the lift, traveling down to the 99th floor, I can't help wondering about the whole affair. Most of all, how two men on separate incidences could have possibly have made such a remarkable recovery in so short a time?

Not to forget the recently highlighted matter of tracking down the whereabouts of Niki Parsons before this 'Dolinskii' cat does.

And what did the old guy mean by 'seem different'? Was it my hair?

"Floor-99, Miss Mulder. Have a nice day!"

To be continued...


	12. THE BOURNE REALISATION

**THE BOURNE REALISATION**

19.45pm

I push the frosted door open and waltz in.

"I'm looking for the IT guy?" I shout, peering around what appears to be an empty room.

Suddenly a bespectacled head pops up from behind one of the desk patricians. Typically geeky, typically unattractive, typically my luck.

"Whoa! Tony send ya?" he asks.

"Who's Tony?" I ask.

"Ha! 'Who's Tony'... I must admit, this year he's spared no expense. Love-that-guy!What agency you with?"

"The agency of 'kick your frigging teeth down your throat, if you don't stop flapping those lips', perhaps you've heard of it?"

"Ah, no... I... can't say I have... wait, your not a... stripper... are you?"

"Well now, that depends... I've peeled a few layers of skin off the odd body-part of ex-boyfriends, if that counts? Kind a like a souvenir collection."

I think I hear him throw up a little in his mouth.

"W-what do you want?"

"Relax, Mr Kenzo sent me. Our boss. Wants you to check something out for him."

"Right... right... sure, okay... what is it?"

"I need you to run the footage from every camera in section 88 East, over a 10 minute loop starting from 7:55pm over the last 7 days. We're looking for... anomalies, anything out of the ordinary that could potentially be-"

"Oh, you mean like those weird jump cuts we've been experiencing with our monitors?" he says.

"Jump cuts?"

He punches a few commands into the desktop keyboard and calls up 5 camera-screens.

"Yeah, it's a film editing term." he explains. "In which two sequential shots of the same subject are taken from camera positions that vary only slightly. They're regularly used in-"

"Yep! Got it! Thanks! What does it mean... in this situation?"

"Well, in this situation its from the same camera, but looking closely you can see... the position of the guys hands jump slightly whilst he's cleaning his glasses. Noticed it for a while now... thought nothing of it, really... glitches happen all the time, even here at Hazuki's..."

"How did you come to notice it?" I ask.

"I... well... can't recall... the exact... initial reason... but I..."

Then I notice the positioning of one of the other cameras, rather closely scrutinising French chick Nikita's chest area as she changes her shoes in preparation to go home.

"Like I said," he says sheepishly. "Glitches happen all the time."

"Okay look, any idea what could be triggering it?" I ask.

"Hard to say. Weird thing is the time stamps unaffected... Like time itself froze for that brief period."

"There must be an explanation... something else... power surges, fluctuations, something occurring at roughly the same time?" I ask.

He looks at me blankly. "What are you, a Trekkie?"

I respond with a cold stare.

"Right. I'll take a look!" he says, punching in a few more commands. "Running a full diaognostic check on all surveillance and security systems within that time frame. It'll reveal any unscheduled data trans- now, that's weird."

"What?"

"Seems to be... small amounts of data... shifted... why wasn't it picked up? It appears to be happening at the exact same time as... but that's impossible... how...?

"Again, what?"

"Somehow, information is being accessed from our main servers and downloaded to a remote source at the same exact time the cameras are being effected. Just a small amount, but it's every day, at the exact same time... this is... weird..."

"Not really. The glasses, they must be containing some kind of dampening field tech... possibly a USB device of some kind built into the arm... using it to siphon out small streams of data whilst running interference with the systems... question is, what?"

He's staring at me again. But this time it's fear in his eyes.

"And you... surmised all of this... from a hunch... taken from a dude cleaning his glasses? Who are you, again?"

Nerd-boy's got a point. How did I even get to such a wild conclusion in the first place? And why do I feel so certain of the outcome? Doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. I need answers. And Patterson's gonna give em to me. Ah heck, the time!

"What time is it?" I ask.

"20.11pm?"

"I need you to locate the whereabouts of Stuart Paterson, the man in the footage. He's in the building, find him for me."

"Impossible." he tells me. "There are literally hundreds of employees still in the building. He could be literally anywhere!"

"Now's really not the time to be playing dumb, smart guy. Unless you want your pervert ways exposed to every one of those hundreds of employees?"

He looks at me, wide-eyed, then types in a series of codes.

"He's in one of the EastWing lifts, making his way down to the car park, I guess."

"I need you to stall that lift! I'll take the WestWing. Whatever happens I need to reach the basement before him. Make it happen!"

"Yes, mam!"

I turn to rush out of the office, but not before stopping for a final word of warning.

"Oh, and Edwards? if I find out you been playing 'Peeping Tom' again, I'm gonna add you to the 'skin collection' I got wallpapering my living room wall. We clear?"

The sight of him throwing up into the waste paper basket tells me we're clear. Just as a leggy blonde, haggard-looking, big busted female traffic cop brushes past me as she enters the room.

"Ah'm looking for the IT guy?" she shouts. "Hey birthday boy, where you at?"

I run towards the Westwing lifts, frantically pressing the button and hoping birthday frat boy's done what I've asked him to. My hearts racing... but the feeling's different than before... I feel different... It's not just the absence of voices, it's... something else...

But ive got more pressing matters to consider, like Paterson. Whats he really up to? Is he secretly working for Ryo's rival, PaperHouse Ltd? What kind of data is he stealing? Blueprints? Spec-tech? And why the heck do I care?

"Basement-level. Have a nice day, Miss Mulder." Informs the creepy AI lift.

I get out. I make my way over to the EastWing section and wait behind a stone pillar. Strange absence of security detail around, especially considering the possibility of retaliation from nightclub owner Chan at any given moment.

A 'ping' signals the lifts arrival as Paterson strolls confidently out. His thin spidery frame giving his walk an almost insect-like quality. Socially, he's been nothing but work, work, work. Never joining us for a drink at the onsite bar... must be pretty lonely. Maybe that's how they were able to get to him to use him like that?

Either way I need to be careful, don't want to scare the guy too much, make him do something stupid. Probably pass out if he knew half the things I'd done. Heck, I only know half the things I've done, myself. I just need some answers.

"Paterson!"

"He turns. Cassie? What... what are you doing here?"

Ah yes, Cassandra Richards. The Alias I've chosen to go by. Well, couldn't really use my real name could I? Especially considering I'm not even sure what that is?

"I know." I tell him, as I walk slowly towards him. "About everything. About what your doing? Extracting information to feed to their competitors? Tjeyre on to you... but I can help... all I need is a name. The name of your contact over at PaperHouse... who your delivering the data to?"

His face. He looks visibly shaken up. His eyes, skulking towards the floor. Then he removes his glasses, and pushes the logo on the temples, before slowly lifting his head again. Only now his face is... not so scared.

"Right then. Now we are truly alone!" he announces, gleefully.

"Ah... what?" I ask.

"PaperHouse? Really? Ha!" he laughs. "You really don't remember, do you? And all that time I thought you were dead. Imagine my face when you rolled up to work on your first day in our office. At first I thought you were merely acting like you didn't know me... then they told me you really had forgotten. A side effect from the accident. That and the fact you haven't been taking your chems, of course."

"My... what? W-what are you ta-.? Who are you?" I ask, more than a little confused.

"Oh, and as for you 'knowing' what I'm up to, I'm not surprised. **You were there when we were given the mission! **That's what probably lead you towards the restaurant in the first place. They're watching you, you know? Always watching..."

Okay, now I feel like I'm gonna throw up.

"Probably all faded now, I guess?" he continues as he slowly circles me. "The fire in your gut, the anger, the aggression... the 'voices'... unique combat abilities... They warned that it would, of course. But then comes the bad part. And trust me, you don't wanna be experiencing that!"

"They...? Who's they? Experience what? What are you-?"

"'No, not here. Not now. There's an abandoned warehouse on George St, be there in 5 days. Midnight. Alone. And bring the key. It'll be the last time you'll get to see me, so do yourself a favor and no funny stuff, alright?"

"Key, what key?" I ask, head throbbing with confusion. Heart pounding like a jackhammer.

But before he can respond, somebody grabs me from behind, covering my mouth with something... suddenly everything around me starts to spin and blur out of focus.

"Hazuki and his men can't be trusted." his voice tells me. "Ask yourself, how they heal so fast?"

Then darkness returns like an unwanted ex-boyfriend, as I blackout.

To be continued...


	13. Natural BOURNE Thriller

**Natural BOURNE Thriller**

It's dark. And I'm alive.

At least I'm presuming I'm alive, from that annoying throbbing I can feel at the base of my skull.

What I most certainly irrevocably am, however, is confused. Deeply confused. Profoundly confused. Like a round peg surrounded by square pegs, trapped in a box with only square holes in it's walls.

Nah, me neither.

The only thing I am sure of, other than said confusion of course, is that I need answers. Does Patterson really know me? His story would confirm why I was initially drawn to Hazuki's restaurant in the first place, like some kind of... subliminal beacon. But surely he would have viewed my supposed knowledge of his mission as some kind of threat to its success? Why was I allowed the live? Why not simply kill me on day one?

Unless... they are watching... and they don't think me a threat. Yet. Just waiting to see if those memories resurface. Paterson spoke about 'the accident'. Was that in one of the flashbacks I experienced when I was being held at that lab?

I need answers, and Patterson's gonna give them to me. But first things first... I need to open my damn eyes!

I crack them to see I'm in what appears to be a hospital bed, with some old guy in a white coat leaning over me, flashing a torch in my eyes.

"Hey, easy with the wattage, doc." I say.

"Relax." he advises, as I try to move. "You've hit your head, suffered a mild concussion."

Nothing mild about this frigging pain.

"Where am I?" I ask.

"Floor 121. Medic Sector. You were found lying on the floor of the basement and subsequently brought here." he tells me. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've... just regained consciousness?" I say, with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

"Right. Well, at least that's... consistent." he murmurs.

"How long have I been out?" I ask.

"Couple of hours. You should really get some rest."

"Plenty of time to rest when I'm dead." I tell him dismissively as I try to get up again, only to helplessly collapse into his arms like an invalid.

"**Never a truer word spoken!**" bellows a familiar voice from the background.

"Kenzo." I say.

"**Only, you very nearly were dead, due to one singular act of stupidity. You disobeyed a direct order not to physically engage with the suspect**."

What do I tell him? Everything? Somebody else was there in that basement with us, somebody I'm guessing is still working in this building... possibly more than one somebody, only I have no idea who. Could even be ole doc here, still annoyingly flashing his light in my face.

"Hey, you wanna stop doing that? Ya Kinda making my headache worse!"

He switches it off and tucks it away in his pocket.

"Don't... remember much..." I say. "I saw Paterson exit the lift, then tried to approach him... someone crept up to me from behind... and... next thing I know I wake up here."

I can see in his face, he ain't buying one ounce of it.

"Leave us!" he suddenly commands the medical staff, before they sheepishly disappear out through the door. Now I'm starting to feel a helluva lot worse, as Kenzo gets up from his chair and drags it, screeching along the floor towards the bed, before hopping back on to it, staring at me in utter silence.

"You... gonna say something... or is this silent act part of the treatment?" I ask, nervously.

"What... really happened?" he asks again, this time less assertive, almost with concern as he leans in. Okay then, let's see.

"Patterson's dirty." I tell him. "And not in the 'I'm in desperate need of a shower' kinda way, either! He's been secretly extracting data from your main servers for sometime now, I'd imagine. Precisely what he's extracting I don't know. But whatever it was... he has it. All of it. So unfortunately you won't be seeing him again to ask him."

But I will.

"Somebody else was there in the basement with us." I assure him. "Coulda been security... coulda been any one of your other gazillion staff members... either way looks like you got yourself something of an infestation problem."

He calmly gets up, weirdly un-rattled by my findings, and walks over to the window, piercing a hole through its blinds with his wrinkled fingers.

"Do you know why Hazuki-San allowed you to come to this complex? Did you ever wonder? A woman he had never met before, who suddenly shows up at the very moment he is about to be assassinated, to save his life?"

Where's he going with this? And yes, I've _often_ wondered.

"We have been monitoring your previous employers 'surveillance' of our operations for quite sometime, Miss Bourne. And have been aware of Mr Patterson's ongoing transgressions for just as long. The 'data' he has been stealing from us is as useless as it is lethal to their systems, when the final code has been uploaded into it."

"Wait, did you just say 'previous employers'?" I ask.

"Our satellite in orbit picked up is one of the most advanced ever to be built, not to mention dangerous, simply because nobody knows it's there." he explains. "In addition to storing every vitally important bit of information It also serves to to protect us by alerting us of any... unwanted attention it may detect... Which it did. Namely a vast group of rogue ex-government agents known as; The Syndicate."

"Never heard of them." I say.

"You should have. You worked for them." he tells me.

"I... who? What?" I ask as he leans in yet closer still, placing his right hand in his jacket pocket.

"We have details on file that implicate you're 'association' with them. We believe your mission was to assassinate Hazuki once your associate Patterson had fully extracted the final codes for our latest technological breakthrough, itself, leaked from within this facility. A project codenamed; 'Heal-eX9"

"What is that, some sort of... biochemical warfare compound?"

"We are not soldiers, 'Miss Bourne', we are technological pioneers who have assigned ourselves the task of... 'bettering' the lives of human civilisation, not destroying it. That is the legacy of the **Hazuki** name. His fathers and forefathers name. We initially developed this technology as a... cure. Of sorts."

"The gunshot wounds... that's how you were both able to heal so fast... why Hazuki appeared so unflustered by you getting shot back in the car. What does it do?" I ask.

"Nanotechnology. Restores damaged tissue at a cellular level before dissipating harmlessly into the blood stream. But the process is far from perfected, carrying with it... several unforeseen side effects, including a resulting lack of stability in the body's cells during the procedure. Although upon exit they can be... rather painful."

"The kind of technology, I'm guessing, would pretty much come in handy out in, say, a battlefield... during... a war? Or after stubbing your toe on the leg of a table! Just spitballing here."

He doesn't get the joke.

"Okay, just supposing this were all true... that I once worked for this 'rogue organisation' and, due to some unknown circumstance, lost all memory of it... or had it removed by someone... just supposing you weren't going to shoot me with that Nambu type A modified pistol your currently holding in your jacket pocket... supposing all of that, why bring me here? Why am I... still alive?"

He's silent for a moment. Then he leans back, relaxing the arm in his jacket.

"He was 7 maybe 8 when he first had the dream." he begins, staring trance-like at the distant wall. "An ambush of young tigers led by the bravest yet youngest amongst them, hunting deer together in a forest of bamboo, as pink petals rained gently down from the skies above.

Suddenly, without provocation, during the joint-feasting of their latest prey, they other tigers turned on their unsuspecting leader, attacking it mercilessly as it struggled to defend itself.

Wounded and greatly outnumbered, the fellow tigers began to circle it's wounded brother, ready to pounce on it, with one final joint act of betrayal... when suddenly a white tiger appeared from the top of a nearby mound, it's startling snow-like fur giving it an almost ghostly presence, striking fear in the other tigers that gazed upon it.

Immediately it leapt towards them, attacking only those that had betrayed their kin, ruthlessly tearing them limb from limb until only it and the wounded tiger remained... alone."

Then Kenzo goes silent.

"Okay... so what... happened next?" I ask, genuinely intrigued.

"He woke up!" he shrugs. "That night and every other since, he always wakes up at that precise exact moment!"

"Right. Okay... wait a minute! 'White tiger'... back at the restaurant when I... stumbled into... that's what he called me... what... what does he think... does he think I'm-?"

"Are you?" he suddenly asks, he's arm visibly tensed up again.

"Look, I don't know who I am, what I am..." I tell him. "I don't know anything... all I know is I may have... done things in my past... things I shouldn't have... things I was maybe forced to do... I dunno... but you clearly know more about me than I do. I need to see that file you have on me... and the girl we heard Chan mention, Nicky Parsons, she may have answers. You-I need to find her! Where's Hazuki, I need to speak with him."

Kenzo gets up again and wanders back over to the window. But this time his mood has changed. Less authoritative... more... solomon.

"They must have made their move last night... perhaps in exact response to your confrontation? The operation was planned to perfection without a second to spare. Without question they had assistance from within this facility... money can buy you many things, including betrayal it would seem."

"I... don't get it... what are you saying?" I ask, still actually not getting it.

"They have... taken him, Miss Bourne. Along with his wife. I awoke this morning to find them both... gone. No suitcases packed. No notes. No ransom given. Nothing. Surveillance cameras whipped clean. I need you, Miss Bourne. I need you to decide what you are. And then I shall be needing you to help me find who took them and bring them back!"

To be continued...


	14. Re-BOURNE

**Re-BOURNE**

FRIDAY 12th 2015

I'm afraid. Why am I so afraid?

It's midnight as my taxi finally arrives at the designated burned-out abandoned warehouse on George St. As I pay the driver and get out, he flashes me a look of deep concern then disappears into the night.

As I take a good look up at the strangely familiar, burnt out, monolithic construction, I fight to lose that tingly feeling of dread that's been creeping down my spine since I left the office. In fact I've been feeling it for the second day running now, and it's getting stronger... along with the headaches and feelings of fatigue.

Trembling, I enter the building through the doorless entrance. Sweat's beading down from my forehead. Visions blurred. Hard to focus. He warned that this would happen. Warned that it'd be rough, due to my not taking my '**Chems**' apparently. No idea I was taking the damn things in the first place. Another one to chalk down to my memory loss, I guess.

Looked up that word on the internet, too. 'Chems'. Turns out it's short for 'chemical', specifically the kind used to cause changes in behaviour or biological systems. Which actually explains a lot. Only it never mentioned anything about the voices I began hearing. Or why they suddenly stopped?

I'm looking around but it appears nobody's home. Guessing that's why they call it 'abandoned'. Only it shouldn't be. Patterson specifically said to meet him here if I wanted answers. Which means he's either watching me now or...

A noise, coming from an upper level.

I head on up the stairwell floor by floor. No sign of him. No sign of anyone. Just large dark floor spaces, teething with dusty scraps of charred furniture, cloaked in cobwebs, dirt, dried vomit from local junkies using it as hotel... and everything bathed in a cool moody blue transmitting from the moon lit night sky shining through the huge towering windows. And there's a strange... pungent odour purveying the air. Again, familiar, but I dont know why.

Eventually I hit the top floor. Stench is stronger up here.

"**Patterson!**" I shout out. Nothing. I've been duped, and I'm done.

"**Bourne!**" shouts a voice behind me. "**You... don't look so good**."

I spin around to see it's him, or rather his silhouette, moodily lit by the streetlights outside the gallery of windows that line the walls of the entire office area, as he approaches me from the other side of the building. He's alone. Good.

"**Thought you... weren't gonna show up.**" I say.

"**You forget, I always keep my promises!**" he replies.

"**Actually, yea... I did forget! Along with... everything else, remember? Did you bring the pills?**"

He taps the chest area of his jacket before asking, "Did you bring the keys?"

"What do you think?" I respond.

Judging from the way he affectionately referred to our past together, back in the basement, I'm betting there's some sorta history between us. And banking on it.

He stops short of a few meters and gives a sly nod towards my direction... behind me? Suddenly I've got company. Two more people suddenly appear from behind me. I do a quick double take and I see it's the IT guy from the office, along with... the big busted strippergram? Oh you have...

"**..._Gotta be kidding me?_**" I blurt out.

"In our line of work, nothing's ever... quite what it seems." he tells me, as they silently proceed to scan me from head to toe with small electronic pole-like devices. How did I not even hear them walking behind me? Damn it, must be part of the symptoms. ANyway, two nods of approval later and Patterson resumes his walk towards me, culminating in an embrace that practically squeezes what little life there is left out of me.

"Its been too long, Alexia, way too long." he beams.

"I'll... have to take your word for that." I reply. "So what exactly is our line of work?"

"Complicated." he simply replies.

"Alright, then... give it to me in layman terms..."

"That was in layman terms!" he jokes. "Come, we're quite restricted for time."

He takes me by my arm and we walk towards a pile of broken dusty monitors and burnt out office equipment. Well, he walks I just shuffle and try and keep up, his two cohorts following close behind.

This... building once served us as a 'black site'. A base of operations, one of several located across the globe.

"That before the fire happened?"

He laughs. "Hardly. We started the damn fire in the first place. Some low-rent sports manufacturers who clearly weren't maximising this sites potential."

"So, arson, huh? Tell me, was there a crime we didn't commit?" I ask. He smiles back.

"Post Vietnam war," he begins, "following the Congressional Act that banned the US from partaking in acts of assassination in defence of our country, the CIA formed a top secret black ops programme called Treadstone Seventy One. It utilised an advanced behaviour modification programme to... breakdown, erase and effectively rebuild its operatives from the ground up into perfect killing machines, able to carry out their missions without remorse or fear of consequence."

"The Syndicate." I presume.

"Jumping ahead of yourself, there, Alexia..."

So, Kenzo was telling the truth.

"For a number of years the operatives functioned with complete anonymity. Teachers, cleaners, doctors... undetectable, completely interwoven into modern day society. Flash forward to 2002, where one of the operatives, rumoured to be the programmes most prized asset, would, following a botched mission, prove to be its ultimate undoing."

"And who was that?" I ask.

"Who they were was not nearly as important as the consequences their actions had on the rest of us. The programme, now evolved into Operation Blackbriar, was disavowed, leading those of us fortunate enough not to be 'retired permanently' to seek solace underground."

Quite a story. But none of it still rings any bells.

"Enter Solomon Lane. A man with more connections than your average cellphone network. He seeks us out and recruits us, recruited you... united us together for a new singular purpose. His purpose, which ultimately became... our purpose."

Is it 'Zero Hour'? Or 'Whitewash'? Both were name-checked back when I awoke in that lab? And just who is this 'Solomon Lane' character?

"I always wondered why you were his favourite." Patterson tells me. "Apart from the obvious of course, you being incredibly hot-looking. Why'd you think you were the only one involved in that heist that didn't have a kill chip implanted?"

The kill chip. Back in the truck before the heist, we were all told we all had one. How did I even forget a detail like that?

"You know, you... really don't look so good." he notes rather casually,

That's because I'm not, idiot. But then you knew that wouldn't you? A relapse from the experiments. You already calculated it would take another four days to kick in. Just in time give you an added edge.

"Ch... Chems... "I mumble.

"Yes. Yes, that's right. I have em, you need em. And badly by the looks of it. Tell you what, you hand over that key and they're yours!''

Rooms spinning like a carousel. I sink to my knees as Patterson and his two stooges circle me, watching on. Gonna need to wrap this up quickly. Still a lotta gaps need filling but at least I got something more to go on now. Nicky Parsons can fill in the rest.

"Hazuki... where is... Hazuki? He's missing. You were involved... that night I saw... saw you in the basement."

He pauses for a moment, hesitant to respond.

"That was the final fulfilment of our contract and conclusion of our business there at H.E." he concedes. "Hazuki and that bitch wife of his have been securely delivered to our client, via an incredibly intricate plan almost a year in the making. With the help of a handful of well placed double-operatives, of course. But I would be more concerned with your own wellbeing."

Suddenly, the I.T. guy whips out a beretta and aims it squarely at my head.

"Time's up, beautiful. Now, the key... where-is-it?"

"Hey, wanna dial back the hostility a touch?" I tell him, as I struggle back onto my feet. "Besides, deals off, I'm afraid. I already... have... everything I came here for."

Patterson looks over at his two cronies before all three burst into a fit of giddy giggles. But it all stops dead when I flash him the tiny plastic satchel of half a dozen blue pills I slid out from his jacket pocket, without him knowing, during our tight embrace. The priceless look on his face.

"**NOW!**" I yell, as a tiny red dot hovers over the IT guy's trigger hand.

You see, one of many benefits of working for a corporation that majors on cutting edge technology is the unrivalled access one has to high end fibre optic audio receivers coated with a detection disrupting alloy. The other is a heavily modified L115A3 sniper rifle, extending its recommended range of 1400 metres. Like the one _currently_ in Kenzo's possession, roughly 1450 metres away.

By the time the rifle's bullet pierces his hand, and subsequently removes it, I've already made my way to the top of the stairwell, dogging a hail of bullets sent in my direction via Patterson and his big-breasted hit woman, as the IT guy lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

"**Damn you, Bourne! I said come alone!**" screams Patterson.

I did. Technically, anyway. The floor bellow, I scurry beneath a desk. The gunfire that ensues is deafening, reverberating around the building as Kenzo smothers the entire top floor with cover fire.

For me, I'm curled up in a ball, petrified. Palms sweating, vision impaired, my heart feeling like its about to beat for the last time before exploding out of my chest like a baby xenomorph. One chance... the pills. But how many do I take? Too few, and I'm dead. Too many and I O.D.

I decide you only live to die once and down all six in one go, struggling not to vomit in the process as I clasp my hand firmly over my mouth and a fervent burning sensation erupts along the inner walls of my throat. Final pill swallowed, I wait. Eyes are feeling... heavy now... like both lids have been laced with lead.

Silence. I'm hearing silence. The shooting's stopped. Why, are they all dead? Did Kenzo get all three?

"**Bourne! Listen up!**"

Hardly. It's Patterson. Shouting from the top of the stairwell.

"**Forgot to mention a small... minor detail, regarding the... 'stability' of said pills. You see, Mr Lane and his small team of kidnapped Toxicologists led by Doctors Ludlum and Hirsch, have been relentlessly trying to come up with a permanent solution to the adverse side effects caused by the extreme braincell tampering... hey, something had to give, right?**"

Great. What now?

"**Okay, so I was supposed to hand you one of the latest prototypes to sample." he concedes, "We needed a trial run, you needed some info... seemed like a good trade at the time! Just remember, when you do take you first pill, to... wait... you didn't take all 6 did you?**"

"**Oh, dear...!**" goads the still-alive, one-handed IT guy. "**Oh deary, deary me!**"

"_Go get her!_" whispers Patterson to him softly, from the floor above.

_From the floor above?_ Wait. I can... **hear** his whispers.

To be continued...


	15. The BOURNE Resurgence

**The BOURNE Resurgence**

Warehouse 428b, George Street.

I can see them.

It's dark on this floor. The visibility's a lot poorer as the windows are a lot smaller and more generously spaced between. It's really dark, but I can **still** see them, moving across the huge office floor filled with endless rows of desks.

Silent, almost ghost-like, they move. Each manning a separate area, as to cover more ground between them, and each more than adequately armed. But it won't help them. Any of them. Because I can see them... but they _can't_ see me.

"**We know your here somewhere, Alexia! We can almost smell your fear**." taunts Paterson, choosing to remain back nearest to the stairs.

Only thing _your_ smelling, Paterson, is the b.s. oozing its way outta yer mouth. But don't worry, it'll be all over soon enough.

"My... my hand..." whimpers I.T. Guy, who's positioned furthest out front.

"Shut your cake hole and quit yer whining!" whispers Chesty, back over to him. "Noise came from over there!"

"**Very clever move, Lexy-baby!**" shouts Paterson. "**You knew we'd have eyes on your from at least a couple blocks down, to make sure you were alone. You knew we had a red light hovering over your head the moment you stepped outta that car. Who's your trigger man? Is it Kenzo? That old fox?**"

He's laughing. Good. Better to do it now whilst your jaw still can.

"**Only issue with that being It'll take a while before he gets to this location. And it's only a short matter of time before we find you!**" he shouts.

I.T. Guy's close now, nearest to my location. His freshly made stump, wrapped in torn material from his shirt, is still bleeding out. Looks real nervous, too. Like he's chewed much more than he can swallow.

Behind him, towards the center of the room, the big-busted stripper girl! Looks like **Kenzo's** tagged her a good couple of times too, by those splashes of red on both her left side and left leg. But she's still ticking. Good. I've reserved the pleasure of 'ending' her myself.

And lastly, Paterson himself, still gleaming with pride. Oh, what wondrous things I have planned for you.

"**Damn it, where is she? Getting tired of this... can't see jack for shit, and my hands aching like a mother-**"

By the time he realizes I'm actually directly above his position, hanging from the light fixtures, it's too late, I've already descended upon him, bringing the entire weight of my body crashing down on his head via my elbow, shattering his spine on impact. His body recoils from the blow, his finger pulling the trigger in a knee-jerk reaction. But I've already anticipated as much, locking his wrist with my hand and jamming my thumb between the hammer and the primer. Gently, silently, I lay him down on the charcoal-stained carpet.

"**D'ya hear something?**" asks Busty. "**Hey, where's Stuart? Stuart, where you at?**"

I have his gun now. But that's... too easy. Too quick. so I take it apart, dismantling it, piece by piece in seconds, before tossing one to the far end of the room. It makes a 'clanging' noise as it hits the dust-stained surface of a desk. She reacts.

"**She's over there!**" she yells and fires a dozen rounds in its direction.

"**Damn it, Riley, keep that firearm of yours saddled. The clever bitch's trying to lure you in! Stay sharp!"** warns Patterson.

Meanwhile, I've grabbed me a handful of discarded pens scattered on the floor. I can feel the precise balanced weight of each as I caress them in my hands. Not only that, but suddenly I'm aware of the exact amount of projectile force I need to hurl one of them to make it an effective weapon. The meds. They're working overtime.

"**Shut it, city boy!" **she retorts. **"What, you think I'm an amateur? I don't see what's so special about her anyway. Why Lane views her as some sorta hotshot? I ain't scared a' no-**"

She doesn't get to finish her sentence. Two pens hurled directly into the side of her neck with extreme force and precision'll do that to a person.

"**Riley! Damn it, no!**" shouted Paterson.

As she falls to the floor, gasping for breath, he rushes to her aid, trying valiantly to stop the bleeding.

"**Don't be mad, Paterson...**" I shout. "**Trust me when I say she was the lucky one!**"

I continue to maneuver around the desks, as he continues his search for me. He's mad. I can tell from his breathing. I'm under his skin, now.

"**I'm... I'm gonna kill you Bourne. Didn't have to go down this way. Wasn't the plan. Lane ordered us to bring you in. Drag your poor ass, if you resisted. Believed you'd still be up for the cause. A world ruled by a rogue nation. But it's clear to me now how this has gotta go down.**"

Keep talking ass-wipe, you'll be the one going down. I keep moving.

"**Pretty fancy what you did back there with the pens. That supposed to intimidate me, by the way? If it is, you really do have no recollection of what I'm capable of doing. What I've done. Who I've done it to?**"

I don't need to, to know the world won't miss your sorry ass when it's gone.

"**Funny, they say 'the pen's far mightier than the sword!". Guess you've proved that little theory correct. Also guessing that latest iteration of our uniquely synthesised meds you took were a success. Only issue being, your now racing against time**."

What are you... up to, Paterson?

"**They also say _'A candle that burns twice as bright lasts half as long_.' or something like that. You can feel it now, cant you?**"

Damn it, he's right. Muscles are starting to tense up.

"Slowly slipping away... that lethargic, drained feeling taking over... followed by an almost unbearable heat... like your burning up from the inside... clouding your thoughts... making you... **_sloppy_!**"

**He's behind me!**

I duck, barely managing to avoid the handful of bullets sailing inches over my skull, as I who my leg backwards into his stomach in one fluid motion. It connects, sending him tumbling over a table. But somehow, pro that he is, he manages to fire a few more rounds at me in the process. Two clip me in the side, passing right through me, but can't think about it now.

Wasting no time, I dive over the table after him. He fires off another round, but I keep going, disarming him first by going for that arm, striking at the joints with considerable force. He screams, and I toss the weapon aside, dragging him to his feet. Now the fun begins.

He takes a swing at me with his other arm, I duck beneath it but he follows up with a spinning back kick. I block it, and counter with one of my own. It connects, as I hear a tooth bounce off of a nearby table. He flashes me a _now_ toothless grin, distracting me momentarily, then connects with repeated heavy blows to my stomach. The blood loss from the gun wound accelerates, but I can't think about it now.

I retaliate with an elbow to the chin, followed with a knee to his gut. He bowls over and I deliver another elbow to the back of his head. He's woozy now, dazed, mustering all of his reserved energy to make one more defiant glance up at me. I deliver the final blow and he goes down.

I'm bleeding. Sure to pass out soon, so will need to act quickly. I bind his hands and feet with some old cables lying around, smash an old monitor screen and remove a shard of glass and pull a handful of naked wiring from one of the other cables. Now we're all set.

Paterson's military trained and at a very high level, no doubt. No use me wasting time asking questions yet about **Hazuki's** abduction. Bleeding's not stopping so I'll need him to tell the truth _first time _round. One thing I'll guarantee, no amount of torture resistance training'll prepare him for what he's got coming. What I've got planed.

"For... forget it... Bourne... no matter what... you do... you're friend Hazuki's dead." he tells me. "The... fat lady's well... and truly... sung."

No, Paterson. She hasn't... but **you** will. In fact, by the time we've _finished,_ you'll be singing like an American Idol finalist.

I'll never forget the screams that follow next. He won't have to.

Information pried, I finally put him out of his misery. Now I'm lying on the ground, bleeding to death. Hope Kenzo's nearby now, or else all this effort's been for nothing. Voices are back now, too. For good it seems. Only it's different from before... like its on,y one voice now... my voice. My real voice. _Along with some mad ninja skills, too! **Ha! **_

I'm _laughing_ now. Not sure why, but it feels good. Maybe I'm trying to heal myself?

Darkness... it's coming back to me. I can feel it, creeping over my body. No longer hot... I'm cold. Eyes are feeling... heavy. Time... to go to sleep.

To be continued...


	16. The BOURNE Recovery

15:15pm

I'm on the rooftop of a tall building, dressed in tattered workmen overalls, overlooking Central Park. Its windy up here, as expected at this altitude and at this time of day. Im not alone either. There are four others on the roof with me. 4 guys. 3 of them I are... unfamiliar, but the fourth...

"Everything's in place, My Lane."

'Lane'? Solomon... Lane?

The guy addressing him is kneeling over an open briefcase exposing some kind of electrical operating device inside of it. He's fiddling about with its switches and knobs, maximising the frequency of the signal coming though its tiny speakers until an audible enough conversation cackles through.

|"Gentlemen, there are far worse scenarios that come to mind than what I am proposing!"| suggests one voice.

|"Sure. But far cheaper. And by at least half a billion!"| replies another.

|"Well then... perhaps... the time has come for this 'mockingbird' to bid this nest adieu?"|

|"No one here is saying that, Col Bridgeport. Are we... saying that?"|

"Confirmation on 'Mockingbird'. The keyword has been given, sir." informs the guy on the floor.

"Move into place." says Lane, as the other two guys shuffle towards the edge of the building, stepping into a lengthy suspended platform, connected via steel cables to a crane.

"Alexia?" he turns and calls to me with a an outstretched hand. His expression akin to a proud father witnessing an only child's first step. I approach him and he hands me a heavy toolbox.

"Who's the mark?" I ask. "What'd they do?"

"'Marks'. There are... several. And have you forgotten the third rule?"

"The more you know about a target, the less it becomes a target, the harder it is to kill."

Ah yes, Lane's five rules of assassination. 'Familiarity'. He's warning against becoming too distracted by a target's social and family orientation. Seeing them as simply 'a face' makes it all the more easier to pull the trigger.

Once in the platform, we're slowly lowered down. The other two take out a pair a inconspicuous sunglasses from their toolboxes and put them on. I follow suit. The lenses, it turns out, have been uniquely optimised to allow complete transparency whilst peering through the heavily mirrored glass windows of the building, revealing the overwhelming mundanity of everyday office life chugging along inside, until we reach our destination.

Inside, we see a boardroom meeting in full flow around a large corporate table seating nine distinguished-looking gentlemen from varying nationalities. At one end of the table, some old Japanese guy sits holding court. The frustration on his face tells the silent story of a man who's reached the boundaries of his mortality.

At the other end... at the other end... I know that face.

'King'.

The same military guy who engineered the bank heist I was involuntarily involved in a while back. But how? Is he working with Lane? Was Lane ultimately behind the bank heist? He abruptly excuses himself from the meeting and makes his exit from the room. As soon as he's clear we get the signal to execute.

|"Full sweep. Cleanup!"|

My two comrades open their tool boxes, taking out high spec semi-automatic weapons equipped with augmented titanium sound compressors and begin letting rip. Again, I follow suit. To his credit, Lane was right, it's far easier the less you know. Just a handful unknown entities, one by one, vanishing from existence, from memory... but for a small insignificant detail, revealed to be... not so insignificant.

On the desk behind his fallen body... a picture frame. In it, a photo. On it, the old Japanese guy. Beside him, Ryo. Ryo Hazuki. No. NO!

I'm awake, for real this time and back in a hospital bed at Hazuki Enterprises main office. Old man Kenzo is peering down at me with... well, surprising concern. I've no idea exactly how long I've been out, or more to the point, how I'm still...

"Alive. I'm... still alive...?"

"Yes. And awake. How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like I probably look. Are those your... little... gizmos I can feel... crawling through mr veins again?"

"A necessary measure to ensure your survival. You have them to thank. In three days you will be..."

"In three days Ryo and his wife will... be out of the country... or worse..."

"You have information regarding their whereabouts?"

"Paterson... he put up as... much a resistance as he could, but he... talked. Eventually they all talk. They're... holding Ryo and his wife. Fairview Shipyard. They're planing on doing... an exchange tonight, 01:00... for a large sum of cash and... a contract... with a client... who will be there... also."

"Fairview Shipyard, I know of it. I will leave tonight. In the meantime you will re-"

"No!" I tell him, as I struggle to get up. "I'm... I'm going with you... I can-"

"Barely string a sentence together. Rest." he tells me, easing me back down. "And worry not, I will not be going there alone."

"No! Your men... cannot be trusted, Kenzo. You have a mole... possibly multiple moles... you cant-"

"There are still men I can trust. A handful at most, but enough all the same. Now rest. The nanites will take at least a day or two more to complete the necessary extensive repairs to your organs and tissue. You will need your strength to endure the coming pain."

No use me arguing with him, the guy's as stubborn as he is old. As he turns to make his exit, he pauses for a moment. Somethings on his mind.

"Ryo Hazuki. You... mentioned his name while you were sleeping. You seemed... troubled... distressed, even."

At the thought of me possibly being the one responsible for Ryo's father's death? Sure, I'd say that warranted feelings of being somewhat 'troubled', wouldn't you?

"I... I don't remember." I tell him. I don't think he's buying it, but it's all I've got for him. For now, at least.

He turns to resume silently leaving the room and I just lie there, staring gormlessly at the ceiling, helplessly... or am I?

Cause that's when I feel it... full movement... muscle control... slowly coming back to me. Could the experimental meds still be in my system...? Combining with the nanites to act as an accelerant... to make me... stronger... in double the time?

As I climb out of the bed and stand by the window, gazing out onto the city below as a storm slowly brews above, I have my answer.

To be continued...

Sent from my iPhone


	17. The BOURNE Interference

**Fairview Shipyard. 00:50. Night.**

I'm looking through the rifle scope of a KSR 550 Wing clipper, complete with telescopic carbon fiber sound compressor, gas canisters, a zip line feature and a self-loading explosive ammo secondary mag. Heck, the thing's probably got more hidden features than an IOS update! And it's all courtesy of Hazuki Enterprises's restricted Tech Munitions department. A cinch hacking into, thanks to my recently augmented skill set. Or maybe I've always been a bad ass high-level security code cracker?

As for what I'm looking down at, over a hundred metres away, well, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for a setup for your typical Hollywood blockbuster movie scene. Picture three black sedans hovering slowly into frame, before parking themselves, uniformly, in a line by the dock. Then three military SUV's pull into the shipyard from the opposite direction, carrying the SOB's responsible for the delivery of 'the package', i.e Ryo and his, I'm guessing, terrified wife.

The fact those particular SOB'S are supposedly ex-military Syndicate buddies of mine, sucks like a proverbial black hole. I mean, was I really implicate in Ryo's father's assassination? Am I really... one of the bad guys? These 'mercs' I was supposedly rolling with, back when I was this coldhearted killer, are the real deal. Took a lotta pain to force Paterson into eventually giving up that intel on where and when 'the package' would be delivered. And he was just a footman at best.

The sedans'll be concealing the identity of the high-paying mystery client, or at the very least, those who are working for him. Or her. Guessing, being Asia's answer to a young Steve Jobs, will garner you your fair share of enemies in today's tech-heavily dependant world.

So far, I dont have a visual on Kenzo and his crew, but he's here, somewhere, I can feel it. And hopefully, if all goes according to his plan, whatever that plan is, I wont even need to get involved. He needn't even know I'm here.

The SUVs slow to a halt and nothing happens for what appears to be a frustratingly long time.

Then, suddenly, the passenger door of the first SUV swings opens and out climbs the biggest military grunt I've seen since... since... the last... military grunt I ran into? Son of a... It's him! The cold hearted 'gorilla' I was saddled with for that bank heist a few weeks back. The one who went crazy and turned on us. But how? He should have been filled with lead and six feet underground by now.

The door to the first Sedan opens and out steps what looks like an enforcer for the Russian mob. Not quite sure how I know what an enforcer for the Russian mob looks like. Probably the same way I know how to crack a high-level security code system.

He walks over to the big guy and says... something... not sure what, but it seems to kick off some kind of dispute over something. Then the Russian reaches inside his jacket pocket and suddenly the doors to every SUV swing open and a dozen automatics are aiming at him. The Sedans do likewise, and for a moment it looks like it's all about to kick off.

That's when I spot Kenzo and his boys, crawling over the surrounding cargo containers like... like ninjas, dressed in black, readying themselves in position to attack. Meanwhile, back at centre stage, the Russian slowly removes his hand from his jacket, revealing... a cell phone. He passes it to the big guy, who grabs it and begins talking as he walks circles around the Russian. Sure wish I had access to that audio.

He tosses the phone back to him and signals two of his men to go and open the boot. Ryo and his wife must be inside. I'm guessing the phone call was to confirm a wire transfer of cash was made.

Kenzo and his men are about to make their move, as the boot opens and out they drag... a girl? That's not Ryo. That's not even his wife, judging by her height and build. Something's wrong. She's bound and wearing a hood, so can't yet make out her identity. As I watch her being ushered over to the Russians I see four of em scramble out of their cars to greet her.

Damn it, was I duped? Did I misunderstand the identity of 'the package'? Was Paterson given false information by Lane? And if so, does that mean... Lane knows I'm here?

That's when I hear it, the familiar sound of the hammer of a trigger being pulled back as its barrel is pressed firmly against the back of my head, followed by that most typical of movie lines spoken, a staple of any action thriller.

["**Make any sudden moves and you are dead!**"]

Yep, definitely Russian. But what the poor sap doesn't know is that a 'sudden move' for me amounts to nothing short of a blur. Which he finds out, as I spin around, knocking his sidearm aside, before snatching it away from him and driving the finger tips of my other hand into his throat.

Unfortunately the gun goes off in the process, alerting both mob and merc alike to my presence. Thankfully Kenzo takes the cue and tosses a smoke canister towards them before storming in with his boys, blasting away at everyone with a seething disdain for life. All accept for the head Russian, opting to simply blow one of his knee caps out. Maybe for questioning. But the big guy, he's missing, which means Kenzo needs my help.

I snatch the rifle back up and fire a couple of gas canisters of my own into the mix, before sending a 'zip line spike' into a hapless merc standing in front of a container, pinning him to its surface. Then I slide down the line, picking off two more of them, before dismounting from the wire to land with a drop kick that sends another flying into the water. The sound of gunfire is so loud, reverberating all around us, I can barely make out Kenzo bellowing at me through the thick clouds of smoke.

"**Where is he? Where is Ryo?**" he shouts.

"**Kenzo! I... I don't know, I'm... sorry, I thought he-GET DOWN!**"

He ducks, and I bag another one behind him

"**Where is that snake, Dolinskii?**" he shouts.

"**Who?**" I say.

"**The Russian I handicapped, the one who was negotiating with the gorrilla. Should have known that little hebi was involved in something like this. He will have answers. I must find him!**"

"**What..? Wait, Kenzo...!**"

Suddenly, a black sedan screeches out towards us, from within the cloud of surrounding smoke. Kenzo grabs me and pushes me aside, narrowly missing getting hit himself. Before springing to his feet to rally what's left of his men and head off in pursuit of who I'm guessing was this Dolinskii dude.

"**Get clear from here! Head back to the complex!**" he shouts back to me before disappearing completely from sight with a sound of screeching tires.

Then I feel it. A vice-like grip snatching me from behind, before proceeding to squeeze every ounce of life outta me.

"**Guess who?**" growls an all to familiar voice, as I feel my bones slowly being crushed inside me. I'm trying desperately to hit him in the face with the back of my head but its no use. My feet are dangling helplessly off the floor. I can hear him laughing at me. Mocking me.

"**Thought I'd died when you left me for dead, didn't you?**" he asks.

"Well... that was... kinda... the point." I somehow manage to splutter out, as everything around me slowly dims into darkness.

Only one chance left to live through this, so I take it. Quite literally. Reaching behind me, I grab the one vulnerable thing every man has, regardless of how many steroids he pumps himself full of, and squeeze with all my considerable might. It takes a second or two to 'sink in' for him, but he quickly catches on, crumbles to his knees in pain as I follow up with a swift elbow to the jaw.

Frazzled, I drop to my knees myself. Something's wrong. The nanites that were in my system, they're not working. They're not healing me. The pain, it's excruciating.

Heck! The hostage! The gorilla's down and out, Kenzo's off giving chase to the Russians, but there's still an unknown female hostage out here somewhere and I need to find her.

I step cautiously through the smoke, weapon poised, breathing calm, wondering if I'll ever get answers to the million or so questions I have, as opposed to just adding more questions?

A sound coming from behind me, to my left. I spin around, weapon ready and see... her, the hostage, pointing a gun right back at me. I recognise her clothing, but what I don't recognise is her face. Blood on her shoulder from a struggle, but it's not hers. And the way she's holding that gun... I'd say military trained.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"You first!" she says.

"I... ah... came to save you!" I tell her.

"Do I look like I need saving?" she asks. She has a point.

"Okay, fine!" I say. "My name... the name's Bourne. Alexia-"

Her eyes suddenly widen as she slowly lowers her weapon, a faint look of recognition crawls over her face. And that's when I finally recognise her, at least a vague memory of her face from a _file_ I saw sometime ago. And a name... an important name I'm supposed to remember.

"It's you..." I say. "Nicky Parsons."

Suddenly, she lifts her weapon back towards me and fires.

To be continued...


	18. BOURNE 32 KILL

**BOURNE. 32. KILL.**

There's this myth, that your life flashes before your very eyes just before you die.

What a pile of crap!

At least, that's what I used to think. I mean, If it were actually true who'd be alive to confirm it? Like I said, 'used to think'. Now I find myself staring at a bullet as it travels seemingly slowly along its trajectory towards my face, and it suddenly becomes evidently clear just how true this particular little myth is.

I see flashes of me as a child, along with... a younger brother? We're in a village somewhere in... Asia, perhaps... explosions going off all around us and then... its several years later, I'm in a nondescript boarding school here in the US... a torn patriotic flag adorns the wall... a blonde girl lying in the bunk above me. She peeps down at me and teases me about... something... flash forward to present day, 2015, and I find the bullet's no longer in front of me, having sailed safely past my head to nest itself deep inside the forehead of a merc behind me who was about to get the drop on me.

"**Could at least told me to duck!**" I scream at her.

"**You'd have been dead by the time the words had left my mouth!**" she responds.

"**Well...! Maybe!** ..._at least I wouldn't have needed a change of underwear!_" I mumble.

"Gross, but duly noted. Besides, I recognised you from your file. Eventually. Wasn't about to put a bullet in you just yet. We need to move!"

"We? Woman, Ive barely just met you! And what, you think I'm-?"

"You want answers, right? Voices in your head, sudden urges to cause people serious harm, bouts of fear... isolation... uncertainty. I can tell you what I know but we need to move now!"

And with that she heads off back into the smoke, picking off every one of em dumb enough to peer his ugly mug through it's mist-like curtains with surgical precision. And I follow on, still desperately trying to piece together what the heck is going on.

"Sorry, who are you again?" I ask "I mean, I know your name...!"

"Not now." she tells me, smashing the window to one of the SUV's before climbing in. Again, I follow without a moment's hesitation. Within minutes she's hot-wired the ignition and we're screeching off into the distance, a hail of bullets giving us the preverbal send off.

"**Keep low!**" she yells, as shards of glass splinter into my hair.

"Hey, think this is the first time I've been shot at?" I scream back. "You gonna give me those answers now or what? You mentioned before about seeing a file on me. I need to know what it said!"

"Search the glove compartment for a first aid kit or something!" she says.

"It said; _to search the glove compartment for a first aid kit or something_?"

"No, I'm saying to search the glove compartment for a first aid kit or something!"

She's pushy, I'll give her that. but I can hardly blame her. That nasty hole in her arm's not getting any smaller and the colour in her skin isn't getting any rosier, either. I rummage through the contents of said glove compartment but come up with nothing but a handful of weird and assorted... things.

"Nothing." I shrug. "Luckily that wound looks like a through and through, so no risk of infection due to, you know, foreign objects being lodged up in there... wait, I've got it!"

Suddenly I yank the cigaret lighter out from the dashboard and jam it into the bullet hole on her arm, before twirling it around. She screams and the car swerves dangerously close towards a wall.

"**Son of a-!**"

"Hey, sorry!" I tell her, "But by the time I'd have warned you, you would have..."

"Just... shut up and finish the job!" she tells me. So I do likewise with the back of her arm. Another scream and string of expletives later and we're continuing on our way towards... well...

"Were exactly are we heading, again?"

"What do you remember about your former life?" she asks. "Before the program? Any specific details, big, small...?"

"No. Not... much, anyway. Pieces of... stuff. Occasional places... faces... events, seemingly random in their order... but... look, maybe you should just let me off at the next corner. I gotta find Kenzo before he..."

"Kenzo Kuragi will be just fine. It's Dollinskii who should be worried if Kenzo ever catches up with the b*stard. Besides, your concern should be a little closer to home."

'kuragi?' Ok, not even I knew the guy's full name. "For the last time, what the heck is going?"

"Hold on!" she grunts, as she spins the steering wheel, drifting the car abruptly into a nearby alleyway, screeching along its narrow path before bringing it to an abrupt halt halfway down. She then takes her wristwatch off twirls the dial anti-clockwise before attaching its now magnetised chassis to the dashboard.

"It'll bounce the signal from the car's tracker a couple hundred blocks from here." she explains. "Now listen close. I was an analyst for the CIA, recruited into a black ops programme codenamed Operation Treadstone, a facet of the CIA's Special Activities Division. It's purpose..."

"'To create highly advanced field operatives, trained to carry out their assignments completely devoid of emotional attachment, invisible within the societies they were stationed within', I got a version of this speech already from Paterson. Give me something new!"

"Paterson? As in Stuart Paterson? He was an asset for Treadstone back in 2012, on assignment in London during the Olympics when he was killed-"

"Whoa, he's dead, alright. But only recently. Had the pleasure of seeing it happen myself. One less 'Syndicate' member to worry about-."

"The Syndicate? An international criminal consortium, thought to be as much a myth as The Hand that supposedly wields them!"

"The what that what?" I ask.

"In 1997 a joint black op task force made up of key British and US intelligence agencies uncovered proof of the existence of a secret criminal organisation while on mission in Kuwait, one believed to be behind every major terrorist attack in the last 15 to 20 years."

"Okay, that part was new!"

"The intel was never verified, so they buried it in a vault at the bottom of Langley, but not before its existence sparked interest in key members of congress who agreed to secretly joint-fund research into the development of an off book counterterrorism program-"

"Treadstone."

"Many servicemen volunteered, most failed the initiation. But few were able to cope with the intense physical and psychological reconditioning required to successfully complete the program, like Jason Bourne."

"Jason... 'Bourne'?"

"It's an archaic term for 'destination' or 'boundary', and one of many aliases he would utilise throughout an impeccable career run consisting of over 32 confirmed kills."

"So, Bourne's a bad guy. Got it!"

"No. But he was made out to be. Following a mission that went south back in 2002, he's body turned up somewhere in the Mediterranean sea, with no recollection of who, much less what he was. CIA tried to erase him from existence for fear of exposure. They failed. And have been failing ever since."

"So, Bourne's... a good guy?"

"Enter neural specialist Doctor Robert Ludlum, who having had his proposed project, Indigo, rejected several times prior for fear of high risk damage to the candidates limbic system, now found his pet project fast-tracked into production for one key solitary purpose."

"Eliminating Bourne. Great. So, I'm the bad guy."

"For years, sleeper agents have been trained at the highest levels of espionage then taught to blend seamlessly into society. Imagine the highest trained among them who literally had no idea he was one?"

"He or she would never break cover or divulge secrets under torture. They'd be nothing evident in their behavioural patterns to even hint at who or what they truly were. But... thats not me. I got out. I escaped. I know what I can do. I can even remember-"

"They call it 'bleeding', it's rare. It's when one state of fabricated consciousness seeps into the other. It means the imprint hadn't fully set Perhaps you got out, perhaps they let you out. But theres still the danger of the trigger word to contend with. A phrase, or series of numbers, designed to activate your-"

"Wait, back that up! Your saying they 'created' an entirely separate personality from scratch, then implanted the bitch into My mind? Where does she end and I begin? Who am I really? Those voices Ive been hearing inside my head, are they actually-?"

"Look, I'll be honest. Its not my field and I'd already left the agency by the time Indigo had been sanctioned. But I do know Ludlum kept a fairly detailed dossier, including possible process that could reverse it. The file's securely locked away in a safety deposit box somewhere only he and God knows. Discover that location, find the key to open it and every question you ever had will be yours to unlock."

Key. Wait a minute... the key! The bank heist was all about getting hold of that key but I never did discover why. That must be it. That must have been King's endgame.

"I believe the Hand may well exist." I say. "And that they may have a mole working within the CIA, maybe even several. Eliminating Bourne is just the beginning. They plan to use Ludlum's notes to replicate his experiment and create an army of sleeper terrorist to... wait. Ludlum... he gave me a message to give to you.. "Project Whitewash' is a go."

"Whitewash? Whitewash was a catalyst code for Ironhand, the last stage. That means...!"

She stops mid-sentence, starts the engine and floors it like she was auditioning for The Fast &amp; Furious. We drive over 40 minutes in silence. Somethings got her spooked and she aint letting on what. Finally we're in Coney Island, where she pulls up outside an abandoned building named The Fun Society Amusement Arcade.

"What are we doing here?" I ask.

"Not me, you." she replies. "A couple a hacker associates I know are stationed here, temporarily at least. They'll help you get to where you need to go."

"Where I need to go, is wherever Ryo and his wife are currently being held. What's his connection to all of this, anyhow?"

"The tech Ludlum utilised to 'realise' his dream was contractually designed and stitched together by Hazuki Enterprises. Last I saw, him and his wife were being shipped out to a Russian ground base somewhere in Moscow. Alexia, this 'Ryo' guy... he's... not the man you may think he is."

"Seems nobody is these days. I... do have one question, what happens if or _when_ I eventually run into this 'other' Bourne?"

"Then you do yourself a favour and run the other way!" she tells me, before leaning over me to open up my passenger door. "Now get out."

Like I said, pushy. As I step out of the car, gazing up at the entrance, seagulls croaking away in the near distance, I suddenly turn and lean back into the SUV.

"Oh, and if you happen to run into Bourne before I do, then I suggest you do him a favour, **tell him the exact same thing!**"

Before she can respond, I slam the door shut and head towards the amusement's entrance. To be honest I don't know why I just said that. But theres a small growing part of me that certainly relishes the fact that I did.

To be continued...


	19. BOURNE TWO POINT O

**BOURNE 2.0**

Nanites. I hate em.

Sure, Kenzo vaguely mentioned they'd hurt like heck on their way out of the body once your bladder's done flushing them out, but he never said how much!

Emergency bathroom visit aside I make my way back out to rejoin my odd trio of unusual hosts, still left pondering the latest revelations about my mysterious life... chief among them being this 'other' me that's been secretly lurking beneath the surface all this time, the one 'created' to kill this other Bourne character, himself a product of Treadstone's behaviour modification programmes.

My head hurts. And it seems the more answers I uncover, the less I want to find out.

"What in the heck was going on in there?" exclaims the old man. "Half sounded like you were giving birth!"

Calls himself 'Doc', though just exactly what he's supposed to be a doctor of remains to be seen. He's ex-CIA from what I can gather, but no idea what his role. Either way he appears to be the one in charge of this motley trio.

"Felt like it too!" I say. "Not that I've ever given birth. Not that I remember ever giving birth."

"So, your really 'her', huh? 'Alexia Bourne'! Kinda surreal seeing you in the flesh. Although I... thought you'd be... I dunno, shorter? You know, from watching the footage... of... you... wait! Its not like, you know, we were stalking you or... ah, anything, it was... you know, footage of you in action... although... not... 'that' kinda action... cause, you know... that would be... ah... kinda awkward? Oops. Too late!"

The motormouth's name is Marshall Flinkman. Mid to late 40's, he's an ex-CIA tech guy who was once a member of APO, one of a handful of their secret black op divisions they ran back at the turn of the last century, and the only guy Ive come across able to speak a hundred words a minute about pretty much nothing.

"Who shot first?"

That's the third and final guy, Incidentally, the largest of the three. His real name's unknown, by the other two affectionately call him 'Tiny'. And hey, why wouldn't they? The guy's only the size of a Buick! Not much else's I'm getting from him, bar that annoying question he's been asking me since I arrived.

"Look, dude, I've literally no idea what your talking about!" I say.

"Ah, right! Let me explain..." begins Flinkman.

"Save it, dweeb." interrupts Doc. "She hasn't got all day. We're on a tightly wound clock, remember? You need to find something, we need to help you find it, am I right? At least that's how Nicky's message read?"

"Err... that's right." I say.

"Well then let's get started, shall we?"

Before I can respond he turns abruptly and makes his way over to several large integrated monitor screens positioned over a single keyboard and boots up the hard drive. I turn to Flinkman.

"So what did you mean by; 'saw me in action'?" I ask.

"Oh, right! Yeah... just a collection of raw CCTV footage... snippets of you... from your decrypted file,... various missions taken from cities all over the world. Tokyo, London...!" He mimics a few faux karate movements, nearly knocking over a floor lamp in the process. Cute, only I have no idea what he's on about.

"Say, you... your not gonna... kill us, right? I mean, I heard you were, like, under an evil spell... kinda... thing... back then...?"

"No. No, of course not!" I say. "I...escaped... all that... stuff. Got out. Say, could I... see it? The footage?"

"Ah... sure, why not? Lemme..."

"Hey! You ready or what?" shouts Doc, impatiently.

We head over to him while the big guy hangs back, grabs a comic of a coffee table and crashes his hulking frame into an old red leather sofa. In fact, looking around, it only dawns on me now how the entire place looks like it was recently defrosted from a cryogenically frozen screenshot of a mid-80's sci-fi movie, all 8bit arcade machines, a duke box, pool tables and cobwebs... lots and lots of cobwebs.

"Alright, lets begin. Is it a face or a place?" asks Doc.

"Place." I say. "A... safety deposit box, actually. Somewhere in... ah... well... somewhere."

"'Somewhere'. Thats cute." he says. "What, you think I can just punch the word 'somewhere' into Google and what your looking for just magically pops right out onto the screen? Is that how you thought this worked?"

Flinkman steps up.

"Hey, Doc? Maybe... you know...? That was a little...!"

"What? You, Flinky, of all people know what we are up against out there. Or need I remind you?"

"No. No you... needn't... do that."

Flinkman's voice trails off into an inaudible mumble as he dips his head, grabbing a cross thats dangling around his neck like he was drawing strength from it.

"Listen, 'doctor', 'doc' or whatever the heck your name is, I dunno what your issue is here, but clearly you have one! I was told not too long ago by a woman I'd only just met, that you three stooges could help me find something I didn't even know needed finding, so excuse me if Im a little sketchy on the finer details!"

The rage, I can feel it growing inside me again. 101 ways to kill him, make him suffer, strip every shred of flesh from his...

"Ah, how about a name?" exclaims Flinkman, nervously.

"Yeah, I've got a name. Dr Robert Ludlum. Im trying to locate a file he's got stashed away in a secure location, probably a deposit box of some kind, somewhere in US."

"Okay, well a name's a good start." replies Doc, as he begins tapping away at the keyboard. "There are an estimated 25 million safe deposit boxes leased in the US alone. By cross-referencing his name with every major bank that provides such services, presuming of course he used a bank, we should at least come up with... a short list. There. 152."

"Okay, so how do we get that short list, you know, shorter?" I ask.

"Who shot first?" Interrupts the big guy.

"Wow. Did I just say something to trigger him off?"

"Tiny back there has his 'uses', conversation participation ain't one of em. Ignore him." advises Doc.

"Ah, c-can we maybe try... ah putting them in order of most frequently visited to least frequent?" suggests Flinkman. "I mean It's bound to be the one he's visited the most, right?"

"Wrong." I tell him. "That's... what he'd expect you... or anyone... to think. He'd want to draw as little attention to the real location as possible... away from... there! The one at the bottom of the list! The only one he visited once. Wait a minute, what's the name of that bank?" I ask.

"The Santa Marina National." replies Doc.

No way. No-freaking-way! That's the bank we hit a month back. The one where I got my hands on... the key! Of course, it all makes sense now. They were after Ludlum's plans all along, that's why the key's so damn important. But I'm guessing they didn't know the location of the box was hidden in plain site as well. Only a matter of time until they do. But why that bank? Why 'her'?

"Could you bring up a list of every member of staff employed there and cross reference them with Ludlum, maybe see if there's a connection somehow... family member... friend... shared associate?"

Doc stares up at me blankly. "What does this look like to you, an episode of 'Who Do You Think You Are?"

"I… got this!" offers up Flinkman, as he invites Doc out of the hot seat. "A buddy of mine created a super programme called ShadowNet back in 2010, which served as a… secret backdoor of sorts into almost every government and law enforcement agency's database in the world. Completely inaccessible to everyone... bar a close handful of likeminded... tech... ah... buddies. Of course, he didn't know at the time, that Division was actually being used by Oversight, this big evil... err...!"

"Falling asleep here, Flinkman." groans Doc. "Gonna impress us today or what?"

"Right! Okay... and here... we... go!"

Suddenly the screen's are filled with three to four dozen profiles of men, women, children, all loosely connected to the good doctor. As I scan through them, one by one, a surprisingly familiar face comes to my attention...

"Her! Who's that woman?" I ask.

"That there is... ah... Karen Mulder. No list of priors, known next of kin or... whoa! Something's not adding up with the profile. Gimme a sec. Ah-ha, yep, seems 'Karen Mulder' is not even her real name, it's an Alias. One of... several she's adopted over as many years." he explains.

"Can you access her original file?" I ask.

"It's... heavily encrypted. Somebody definitely didn't want this information getting out. There's firewalls around this that'd make China's look like a picket fence! Ha-ha! You get it? China... The Great Wall... ! Carrie always wanted to go there, I was like 'honey, its a wall! We got one in the back yard, you know?' Of course, what she didn't know, was I was secretly planning..."

"You wanna focus on the task at hand, Flinky?" barks Doc.

"Yeah. I... yeah. Sorry. Cracked it! Thank you, Birkof! She was born... 'Natasha Marie... Ludlum'?. But that... would mean..."

"She's his daughter. Should have known." All the puzzle pieces are finally starting to fit together.

"Well, that's you done!" says Doc. "Guessing you'll be on your way now, huh?"

What is the old guy's problem? It's like the longer I stay here the more agitated he gets.

"Actually, no. There's a friend I need to track down, probably in a lotta trouble right now... could you maybe use the facial recognition thingy to track his whereabouts? His names Kenzo Kuragi... what's so funny?"

"I've heard of that guy being called a lotta things in his time, but a 'friend' was never one of em." explains Doc, as I hear the sound of Tiny peel himself off of the sofa behind me. "But finding him's your problem to deal with. We work for Nikki not you, and we're done here. Flinkman, escort the young pretty lady out, will ya?"

"Sure... ah... sure."

As we make our way back to the front entrance, incidentals the back entrance to the building, Tiny lumbering behind us ominously, I lean towards Flinkman for some final snippets of info.

"Why'd you put up with that guy for?" I ask.

"It's… kinda a long story." he says.

"Wanna skip to the end part?"

"That's an even longer story."

"Alright. Then tell me why Nikki doesn't just use the 'Shadow Net' programme to find Jason Bourne? Or is she too old school?"

"She has, numerous times. Unfortunately Jason Bourne is one of the most resourceful operatives on the planet. If he doesn't want to be found... you may as well be searching for a ghost."

"Fair enough." I say, as we reach the door. "Tell Niki I said... ah... 'thanks'.

"Sure thing." he says as he shakes my hand, discreetly palming me a small ordinary-looking cell phone as he whispers; "It's heavily modified, a prototype actually, with a number of cool built in features, including a lite version of Shadow Net. Works pretty much the same way. Any issues, my number's also programmed in the phone book. But, please, text, never call. You know... Doc being... Doc."

"Why… are you doing this?" I ask.

"Cause you remind me of her. Of... Sydney...!" he says.

"Who?"

"**Sorry we... couldn't be of more use! But we've got a Black Ops programme to bring down, right Doc? Anyway, you... ah... look after yourself!**" he tells me as he slowly makes his way back, leaving Tiny standing there, arms folding asking;

"Who shot first?"

"Ah, about that..." begins Flinkman, as he spins back towards us.

"It's okay, I get it." I say. "Star Wars, the prequels, right? Original print verses the remastered editions? It's Han, big guy. It's always been Han! He's a survivor. It's in his nature."

Tiny smiles a satisfactory smile as I exit the building.

To be continued...


	20. The BOURNE Equation

**The BOURNE Equation**

Its been a busy 13 hours.

With my search now for both Ryo and Kenzo akin to trying to find two needles in one giant haystack, it was left to Flinkman's excessively handy and highly augmented mobile device to piece together a string of 'cyber breadcrumbs'.

Following a slew of 'How do I?' text messages to Flinkman, the first stage was fairly straight forward. Grabbing one of only a handful of available pics of Kenzo, taken from a recent Tech Expo event over in San Diego, and dragging the image into the phone's very own search engine. The software ran a satellite-aided search via every speed and CCTV camera within a 100 mile radius and strung every match together into a trackable map-like guide. I jacked a nearby car and followed the trail intently.

This eventually led me to a smoking pile of vehicular carcasses under a tunnel, along with a few human ones for good measure. Place swarming with cops, I hack into recordings of the nearest CCTV feeds.

Seemed the ensuing car chase culminated in a heavy shootout where Kenzo's car was intercepted by an armoured van. The Russians got away, Kenzo's men eliminated and the old man apprehended and thrown in the back of the van before both it and he disappeared. I'm talking vanished without a trace, leaving me without anything resembling a lead.

That's when I remember the phone call I overheard between nightclub owner Derek Chan and some Russian dude called Dollinskii some weeks back and slowly put together another piece of the puzzle.

The Russians want to replicate Ludlum's experiments and set out piecing together the various events to make it work. Ryo's tech, Niki Parson's background experience, Ludlum's notes... they make a deal with Chan, who agrees to betray Ryo to get out of his heavy debt with Ryo's family name. With Chan the one lead I have, I set out to make him talk.

Problem is; A - the paranoid music geek rarely stepped foot outside of The Rising Son, his very own personal rave-addled party love nest, so in order to get to him I'd need to find a way to get inside. Bringing me to problem B; The last time I was there I was ducking a swarm of bullets courtesy of Ryo's questionable 'enquiry' skills. Which left only one other access point. The air vent.

Breaking into the building via the roof and shimmying along the tunnels was the fun part. Waiting for him to be alone whilst he 'entertained' three, count em, female companions, was more than even I signed up for. Thankfully it was all over within minutes.

The three escorts collected their fee and made their exit. I could see on a nearby monitor his security detail had been tripled since the last time so getting in and out without incident was paramount.

I unscrewed the grid using one of a handful of coins taken from the car's glove compartment and slid it to the side before jumping down, landing cat-like on the floor. Grabbing a steak knife from a table I made my way over to his circular leopard-skinned covered bed where the exhausted 'prince' slept, placing one hand on his mouth as I pressed the knife firmly against his throat with the other.

"Hey. This is your 19:57 booty call." I whispered. "Now, I'm gonna need you to be as quite as a baby mouse. Well, that is, until, I ask you a couple a questions about who you've been keeping company with lately... then I expect you to sing like you were auditioning for American Idol!"

The wet patch that emerged from beneath the covers told me he was all ears, as he began spilling the beans on everything he knew. Which, to be honest, wasn't much, but enough to point me in the direction of my next and current destination; a distant abandoned airfield inexplicably absent from any official road maps.

Now here I am, peering down through the small window of an industrial air hanger, with no sign of the old man in sight. But what I do see, is half a dozen military grunts shifting various sized heavy boxes onto a mini transport truck. WMD's of some sort perhaps? Whatever it is it's gotta be bad.

Short on time and In need of a thermal birds eye view, I decide to break Flinkman's golden 'rule' and give the brain box a call.

["_**Ah... Hello?**_"] he says hesitantly, as he answers.

"Flinkman, I'm at a key location. Trails gone cold and I'm in the dark. I need your eyes!"

["_**Ah... hello ma! How... are you...?**_"]

Great! Either he's given me his mothers belated birthday gift by mistake or... aw heck!

"Is... Doc there with you?" I ask.

["_**That's... about right, ma! That's... yep, yep...!**_"]

"Fine. Okay, look, I need to know how many termites are inside the building I'm staring down to into, before I, you know, run in half-cocked and get myself killed?"

["_**Ah, really? Okay... well, good luck with that, ma! Hope it... all goes well!**_."]

"Hope it goes...? Are you shi-?" He hangs up.

I'm gonna kill the little guy. Providing I don't die first of course. Either way looks like I'm on my own. But that's okay, Ive face worst odds in the past. I think. Probably.

"**Drop the gun and turn around. Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.**"

Your kidding me? How can I let someone get the drop on me for the second time in less than 24 hours? His accents thick, youthful... his response will be quick so I'll need to time my movements to a t-

A rifle butt slamming against the back of my head stops my train of thought dead as the world about me slowly dissolves out of view. Damn it. I hate blackouts.

To be continued...


	21. The BOURNE Realignment

**THE BOURNE REALIGNMENT**

Smelling salts.

They jar me back into consciousness with all the finesse of a landmine. Hey, at least I'm alive, right? Albeit, nursing the mother of all headaches.

I look around for the person responsible for my little 'impromptu nap' to find I'm now seated inside the airplane hanger, strapped to a steel chair, a vast emptiness surrounding me on all sides. To my left, a hazy silhouette of a tall guy, casually holding a rifle behind his head as he stares down at me.

["Wakey, wakey!"] he teases.

Man, I'd like to nail his ass to the wall with a jackhammer and go to work on him with pair of rusty pliers and a... No! That's... that's not me, it's 'her'. The one they created to be me. The killer.

"Hello. Do you know who I am, child?"

The voice comes from my immediate right, Im guessing it's the person responsible for my abrupt awakening. His accent, foreign, European... his voice, soft yet authoritative... his drawn bespectacled face blurring gradually into view as he leans in to address me. Age puts him somewhere in his early 50's. Wait, his face... I... do know him.

"Of course." I murmur, "You're... Lane. Solomon Lane."

"Correct." he smiles, albeit briefly. "And now for the most important question of all; do you know who you are?"

To be honest, its a fair question. At least one that's got me thinking hard for the past 5 to 6 weeks. Who was I before the experiments? And can I become her again?

"Sure. I'm the girl tasked with stopping... guys like you from doing... whatever it is you're planning on doing." I blurt out.

The rifle guy smirks to himself, dismissively. I cut him a mean look.

"And what exactly is it you believe I am 'planning', my dear'?" continues Lane, intriguingly.

"I... I don't know... yet!" I confess. "But it won't take long for me to figure out... and when I do-"

["Mr Lane, we are really pressed for time, sir."] informs the big guy in Russian, as he lightly yet respectfully taps his watch.

["Until I am satisfied our plans have not been divulged to outside parties, I will take as long as I deem necessary, Janik! Now leave us, and ready the men and our prisoners for our eventual departure!"]

The big guy slouches off, begrudgingly, but not before blowing me a faux kiss. Freak.

["You should leave with him, Lane."] I advise. ["Give yourself a head start. The CIA programmed me to stop guys like you by any means. Heck, I don't even know what I'm gonna do when I get my hands on you!"]

"You will do nothing!" booms a sudden voice from behind me, as the sound of heavy footsteps echo all about me. "Accept do as your bloody told for once! If there is any 'torture' to speak of, its hearing my most prized asset speaking out from within a mind that is far from her own. Lane, surely you have heard enough to satisfy even your astute curiosity?"

Suddenly, a large dominant figure looms into view, clothed in military attire. Its the old guy in the van from the bank heist, the one who masterminded it all.

"Well, well... the man who would be 'King'." I say.

He cracks the faintest of smiles before telling me; "It's time to come home, Alexia."

"Sure... sure, just release me from my restraints and I'll… come quietly."

"No." comments Lane, still staring deep into my soul. "In answer to your question, I am not yet satisfied."

"Well I am!" replies King. "We're flirting dangerously behind schedule, here. Accelerate the process. You have 5 minutes."

"What... what 'process'?" I ask. "Look, King, remember Ive got the one thing you need. Anything happens to me you'll never find it."

He stops and turns to me.

"You still have the key don't you?" he asks. "The key that grants access to Ludlum's original notes. You've hidden it from me haven't you child?"

"Look, I get everyone in this room bar me is pretty much borderline retirement age, but this 'child' line crap is wearing pretty frigging thin!" I yell.

Annoyingly, he says nothing back. Just smiles again, before clicking his fingers and calling out. "Tell her to bring it!"

"Bring... bring what? Tell who?" I ask, trying to slip outta the cuffs. I really don't like this.

"The truth is you could never truly stop people like me, Miss Bourne... because the reality is... deep down you are people like me!" explains Lane. "People like us. In fact, truth be told, there are some who have crossed paths with you before... the real you... who would gladly label you as much, much, worse."

"Could… somebody crack open a window or two, the stench of bull**** is a little overpowering?" I say.

"Why do you think that pretty little head of yours didn't explode when you turned tail and ran back at the bank?" adds King. "It wasn't a bomb we implanted in the back of your skulls, It was a tracker. We've been tailing your movements ever since you stepped into Hazuki's restaurant!"

"Sorry, too perfect." I tell him, dismissively.

"Perfect my ass." he growls. "You almost singlehandedly jeopardised an op nine months in development by setting foot in that restaurant. Since then you've killed three of my top assets, not to mention souring relations between us and our Russian counterparts by allowing Niki Parsons to escape after we spent weeks capturing her. Frankly I'm amazed any of it worked."

"No. No, I... 'Bourne'... it was always... the mission was to locate and apprehend Ja-"

"Jason Bourne is, and always has been, the smallest piece of a larger puzzle, as far as the CIA are concerned. For 'us' he is nothing more than a temporal annoyance. Albeit one who has proven incredibly difficult to eliminate."

"But... you're are the CIA!"

"At times, yes. I work as a CIA section chief, inheriting my position when Jason Bourne subsequently retired my predecessor 'Ward Abbot'. I supply the Treadstone program with suitable candidates, then occasionally recruit the most field-worthy among them in secret for those... most elusive of high-profile marks."

"A secret black ops division within a secret black ops devision?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Call this; your Redeploy."

"'To manoeuvre a piece onto a more effective square, file or diagonal'. Great, more chess references."

"Our 'true' employers wanted to cancel you. I convinced them otherwise... that you were still... of some use. That is why your here, Alexia."

"No, no I'm here... to stop you! I came here..."

"Oh, my sweet, sweet, child…!"

Before I can respond, a tall redheaded suddenly strides into view. The freaky thing is I never even heard her approaching. Like, how is that even possible?

She hands Lane a small tattered metal box, then turns to inexplicably shoot me the meanest of looks. That's when I realise it's the very same redhead from the heist. The Russian girl that must have gotten away in all the confusion.

"Well, this is shaping up to be quite the reunion." I say, trying to mask my confusion as to just what the heck is going on?

"So, your the bitch all this fuss is over, huh?" she suddenly tells me.

"Whoa! Little on the hostile side." I tell her. "And what happened to the thick Russian accent?"

"What thick Russian accent?" she frowns. "What's this bitch talking about?"

"Okay, call me bitch one more time and you'll be gargling a mouthful of your own teeth!" I warn her.

"You wanna go toe to toe with me, little girl?" she retorts. "Yea, I heard all about you... supposed to be some kinda 'bad ass'. Wanna see what a real bad ass is?"

"You're not a bad ass." I tell her. "You're just some chick with a bad ass!"

"Ladies! As much as seeing the two of you going at it would prove... immensely entertaining, time really doesn't permit. Mr Lane, if you please? We'll be waiting for you all in the Jet."

King makes his exit, leaving me with an over-sceptical Lane and an infernally fiery redhead, who, for whatever reason, has no clue we've already... met... unless...

"You've imprinted her." I tell Lane. "That's why she doesn't remember me. You did to her what Ludlum did to me. Turned her into some sick psycho bitch suffering severe PMT."

She steps suddenly towards me, Lane raises his hand, immediately halting her in her tracks, before turning back to me.

"Is... that what you think this is 'child'? That another more sinister and ruthless consciousness was fabricated then forced into your mind. A consciousness created to turn you into that ruthless yet most efficient killing machine?"

"That's... yeah... pretty much."

"Oh my sweet, sweet, Alexia... the project wasn't to fabricate a dark and twisted mind and implant it into the body of a timid young child, ...my dear... it was to fabricate a timid young mind and plant it inside the body of a dark and twisted killer!"

What... ? No... that's... not possible. "That's... not... you're lying!"

He opens the box and takes out... a notepad.

"What's... what is that?" I ask.

"Oh, this. Thanks to your constant meddling we have... had to go to extreme lengths in order to... acquire the information we needed. Wasn't long before we were able to connect the dots between the good doctor... and his daughter. We kidnapped her then threatened to kill her... he was most… cooperative."

"The code... trigger phrase... you… know what it is?"

"Jason Bourne can wait." he tells me. "You have a new more immediate target to take out. Sadly, one of our own; Dorian Grey."

"The director and founder of tech giant Paperhouse Limited? Hazuki's rival corporation?"

He says nothing, just rifles through the pages of the book till he locates what he's looking for. Then leans away from the edge of the table and walks towards me.

"Hey Lane, she's not gonna remember any of this, is she?" asks the redhead, now by his side, cracking her knuckles impatiently.

"No." he replies. "Nothing."

"Good." she says, before driving her fist literally through my face. My head recoils from the blow, a stream of blood drizzles out my left nostril and trickles across the rim of my top lip. The pain is the last complete thought that goes through my mind.

"Please... please don't do this." I ask, as terror of the unknown suddenly grips me from the inside. He looks down at me and smiles, almost apologetically, before opening his mouth to speak.

"Bourne. Indigo. Seahorse. Whisper. Five. Echo. Forest. Hunger. Denial!"

Darkness ensues for what I fear to be the last time.

To be continued...?


	22. The BOURNE RE-BOOT

Doncaster Hotel. 21:35pm

"**N-no, please... don't... I'm begging you! Don't!**"

"Oh, so now your ready to talk, huh Fredrick? And I'm guessing it's got nothing to do with the fact that your now hanging from your ankles 68 floors above ground level from this rather plush penthouse suite balcony, am I right? Purely coincidental, right?"

"I would be remiss not to inform you arm is getting tired, Fredrick. And this wind and constant downpour of rain is certainly not helping."

"I'd take note of what my tall and rather imposing associate here is saying, Freddy!"

**"PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! ON MY DEAD WIFE'S ASHES, I SWEAR I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING YOU WAMT TO KNOW!"**

Ever hear the one about the impatient assassin who was running out of time? No? Well unfortunately I don't have the time to tell it to you right now.

Oh, alright then, just a snippet.

My name is Alexia Sitarska and you can forget anything you think you knew about me.

For a start, that's just one of the many aliases I use in my day to day role as a high level operative within a secret organization called The Syndicate. Generally, I'm the kind of muscle you hire when you wanna get talkative people to stop talking. Permanently.

As for The Syndicate? Sure, we do bad things and for bad reasons too, but does that make us bad people?

_Aw heck, who am I kidding?_

Anyway, a little over a year ago I volunteered to have my memory wiped for an undercover assignment within a CIA black ops program codenamed Blackbriar, do try and keep up. The two-pronged aim of that mission was both to infiltrate the tech organization involved in Blackbriar's initial inception, Hazuki Enterprises, and eliminate an elusive rogue asset from that programs original operation, Treadstone, some guy by the name of Jason Bourne.

Meanwhile out here in the 'real' world, things went south involving one of our organization's primary benefactors and I was dragged from assignment early to clarify his involvement and assess what damage was done.

**"Please, l-let me down!" **pleads Fredrick**. "W-w-wait, d-don't drop me! I m-meant on the balcony... please!"**

The guy doing all the whining is one Fredrick Eisenberg, real estate hotshot of the city and a man with his ear so permanently to the ground you could easily be forgiven for mistaking him for the slithery snake he quite literally is.

"**Wisely** **clarified**, **Fredrick**." teases Vinter, before tossing Fredrick's wiry frame to one side like he was an empty chips packet.

Janik Vinter aka The Bone Doctor, is the kind of tall, imposing muscle you hire when you want to get quite people to talk. The guy could get a mute singing the national anthem in minutes with his 'unique' brand interrogation techniques. Holding Fredrick aloft in the air by his ankle with apparent ease in this stormy weather's no mean feat.

"**60** **seconds**, **Alexia**." he warns me. It's the response time Fredrick's heavies at the front door will act upon when they finally realize something's wrong in here.

"Hear that, Fredrick? Best you make everyone of those seconds count!" I say.

"Okay-okay! Way I understand it, that whole incident a short while back involving one of our Pandora Sites being hit was not the FBI sting operation it was made out to be."

"Pandora Site?" I ask, with a blank expression.

"Highly secret storage facilities located around the world, holding everything from stolen classified documents to POW's." explains Vinter. "If not the FBI then who was responsible?"

"Dorian Grey! He masterminded the entire operation along with a handful of Feds on the take."

"Bit of a stretch, Fredrick." I say, with a stroke of my chin.

"On my dead wife's grave, it's the truth! According to my sources he's been complaining how he don't feel right having someone else looking over his shoulder. It's usually him doing the looking. He's been looking for leverage of some kind... got word of the location of a top secret ledger tied to the people up top... the puppet masters controlling our organization... you know who I'm talking about!"

'The people up top'... he's referring to the members of The Hand. The only time I ever saw Lane show straight up fear was the day I asked him if he knew who they were. Anyway, Lane's hunch about Grey's involvement's confirmed. Time to wrap this one up.

"You got to help me disappear!" squeals Fredrick suddenly. "Once Grey catches word I've told you... he'll... please... I have a family...!"

"Sure, I'll help you disappear!" I tell him, slowly reaching for the Glock shoved in the back of my pants. Just then, a bullet cuts the conversation short as it shatters the patio glass before piercing the back of Fredrick's skull. How inconvenient, that was my privilege.

"**They** **are** **here**!" alerts Vinter, as half a dozen suits firing semiautomatics swarm into the room, their sporadic fire keeping us on the outside as we try and take cover behind whatever we can.

"**Gee**, **thanks** **for** **the** **heads** **up**!" I shout over the noise of increasingly loud gunfire. "**Masks** **on**. **They** **can't** **identify** **us** **until** **we take em down! Can't leave any of them alive and have em alert Grey before we get to him!"**

**"They KInd of have us pinned!"**

**"Again, thanks for the heads up! But I've an idea! Remember when we were in Syria a few years back?"**

He nods in acknowledgment reluctantly before pulling a clown mask over his face and standing up to spray the entire inside of the hotel room with cover fire, forcing our attackers inside to take temporary cover.

Meanwhile I've sprung to my feet before running and launching myself off the balcony's ledge across towards the adjacent room. But it's rain soaked surface proves to slippery and I fall to the balcony below one floor down as the wind continues to howl like a wolf in labour. Nothing like a high risk chance of eminent death to get the adrenaline racing.

On my feet, I shoot my way into the room, excusing myself to the honeymoon couple I catch making good on their wedding vows.

_"My apologies, 'Hotel inspection', no cause for alarm, it's all clear! Oh, and any word to anyone that you've seen me, I'll be back to shoot one of you whilst the other one's forced to watch. Enjoy your evening!"_

Oh it's good to be back.

Exit made, I make my way back up the stairwell up towards the 83rd floor, double speed.

Cautiously making my way along the hallway I spot two of the security men poised outside the hotel room, waiting to join in the firefight. I give em an open invitation with two bullets to the head before grabbing one of their weapons and bursting into the room, two guns blazing like a scene right outta a Pekinpah western. Meanwhile, Janik, taking my cue, counters with his own onslaught from the rear. They never stood a chance. Security detail downed, we turn our attention to making our escape.

"Hotel re-enforcements on its way. 2 minutes." Informs Vinter, as he listens to his earpiece

"Alright then, let's get the staging done with and make our exit."

After carefully planting our weapons among the fallen bodies, making it appear to be an inside cockup of a hit, we make our way back to the balcony before I get a sudden flash of an idea.

"Wait a minute. Grey isn't the only paranoid egotistical frat boy on our payroll. Fredrick's his go to guy for real estate. Grey's got property all over the world... I'm guessing...!"

Then I see it. On the mantle piece underneath the huge 92 inch television, a rusty-looking urn.

"All that talk of his 'dead wife'! Fredrick never cared about anyone, ever! Even his own mother. Have you seen the broken down condo that poor women's holed up in?"

"One minute, 12 seconds." informs Vinter. "We do not have time for this!"

"Then we make time!" I say, grabbing the urn and running into the kitchen to pour its contents down the sink. Within seconds 'presto' a USB device wrapped in plastic emerges. I grab it, then grab a tie from one of the dead guys before setting it alight and waving it near the smoke detectors. The alarm triggers and the entire hotel proceeds with an evacuation proving us with a suitable distraction.

"Okay, now we go!" I say.

We head back to the balcony and jump, pulling the chutes concealed in our backpacks as we descend. Steering our decent down towards our designated landing point, a bus parked near by a field, commandeered by one of our very own.

No thanks to the torrid weather, which provides more than a few hairy close calls, we land on the vehicle's roof, gather the chutes and make our way inside.

"Took your damn time!" says the driver.

"Just drive, Sonya." grunts Vinter.

That's Sonya Rominov, aka Red Sonya, aka Copperhead aka a royal pain in my athletically taut ass. She's new, real 'salt of the earth' stock. Joined the organization while I was in deep cover. Has a fixation with throwing knives an unexplained hostility towards me. Not that I'm bothered of course.

"What's up with you?" I ask Vinter as I catch him eyeballing me.

"You seem... different... since you have been... back." he asks.

"Different? Different how? What, like I've put on weight?"

"Did you get 'it' or not?" interrupts Sonia, as she turns the bus into a busy local street blending us seamlessly into its ongoing traffic.

"Yep. Grey's involvement's been confirmed." I tell her, thumbing the small USB device in my hand. "We just need to locate where he is, retrieve what was stolen and eliminate him. And I think I have an idea for the former."

To be continued...


End file.
